


PDX to JFK

by katethereader



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: ALL THE GOOD STUFF, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Author Rhys, F/M, Mild Sexual Content, Past Cheating, Past Sexual Assault, Pining, Publisher Feyre, Updated tags:, Witty Banter, airplane cuteness, cute giggles, growing together, sharing sweaters, the "meet kinda cute" au absolutely no one asked for
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-12
Updated: 2018-05-03
Packaged: 2018-12-26 22:18:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12068088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katethereader/pseuds/katethereader
Summary: Feyre Archeron is pretty sure there are lines that shouldn’t be crossed when it comes to conduct with the authors whose books she edits. But when you take what should have been a normal flight to Paris and add a tuna sandwich, a red pen, and a smirking stranger, lines can get a little blurry.orthe one where feyre accidentally trashtalks a novel to its author, and then they fall in love





	1. PDX to JFK

**Author's Note:**

> this stupid idea came to me months ago and this has been sitting in my docs ever since. This is part one of hopefully many!!

Feyre smiled at the flight attendant as she stepped into the body of the plane.

“Thank you for flying with us today, ma’am,” the all-smiles, white haired man said. Feyre raised her brows and gave him a tight smile as she readjusted her messenger bag on her shoulder and continued down the aisle.

Feyre hated that first class not only was at the front of the plane, but that they were seated first. They always looked so smug as everyone else filed past toward their economy-minus seats.

She walked all the way down to row 27 and motioned to her seat in the middle, wordlessly asking the woman on the aisle seat to stand and make room. Feyre sat down with a huff, pulling her bookbag into her lap. The man in the window seat was approximately seven thousand pounds and already snoring. The woman to her left, on the aisle, sat back down and resumed her knitting. The needles were long and metal and clicked very obnoxiously as the woman’s arm cycled in a very exaggerated manner to filter the yarn through the stitch. Each wide movement of her arms had her blown out, obviously-dyed-auburn bob bouncing. She wore a green ribbed elbow-length sleeved shirt and loose brown pants over her bottom-heavy body. She looked like she'd be the sexy-for-her-age model for an adult diapers commercial.

“Hello, honey,” the woman said. She definitely wasn't a Portland native, and didn't sound like a New Yorker either. She had an upper Midwest accent, odd for a Portland to New York flight. “I'm Pamela. What might your name be?”

“I'm Feyre,” she said.

“Fay-ruh? What an odd name! Your parents must have had some strange tastes, huh sweetie-pie?” Pamela chuckled at the absurdity of Feyre’s name and her own obvious sensibility for being named Pamela. Feyre was already annoyed.

It was going to be a long flight. The attendant called doors in five minutes.

Feyre gave Pamela an unenthused smile, hoping she'd get the memo that Feyre was really not in the mood to have a lengthy discussion about all of her own weird quirks. Plus, she had work to do.

Pam didn't seem to get it. “Well, Feyre, it's nice to meet you,” Pam held out her hand and Feyre had no choice but to shake it. “Ooh!” Pam said when their hands clasped. “Your little hands are ice cold! And you're so thin. You're like a stick! You need a sandwich, young lady.” Pam ducked and grabbed her carry-on from where she'd stowed it under the seat in front of her. She came back up with a packaged sandwich. “I have just the thing! Tuna salad sandwich! Here, honey, keep it. You obviously need it more than I do.” Pamela handed her the sandwich and poked Feyre in the ribs, two things Feyre didn't want or appreciate.

“It's very kind of you, but I just ate in the terminal. Thank you though,” Feyre said graciously, though she really didn't mean it. It didn't help that Feyre absolutely hated tuna.

“No, I insist. Here, take it.” Pam pulled down Feyre's tray table and set the sandwich down on it, opening it. Immediately the whole cabin smelled like tuna salad, arguably one of Feyre’s least favorite smells in the world. Feyre sighed and gave up.

Next to her, the seven thousand pound man woke up with a cough and a snort. “Is that tuna?” he said, covering his nose.

“Tuna salad,” Pam said in her infuriating accent. “For Feyre, here. She's like a little twig, isn't she?” Pam poked her again.

The man heaved. “I hate tuna. The smell alone is enough to make me gag.” He scrambled to grab the barf bag from the back of the chair in front of him. But, in spectacularly unironic timing, he threw up all over his tray table instead.

And then the attendant called doors.

Now the whole compartment smelled like tuna and vomit. And Pam screamed.

Feyre was sure she was going to have to jump out the window of the plane.

But just then, the same white haired attendant came by and asked for Ms. Archeron.

“I'm here! That's me!” Feyre practically whined. For a second she hoped they'd discovered something suspicious in her bag and she was being arrested or detained. Anything to get her off this plane.

“We have a vacant seat in first class and you have been randomly selected for an upgrade, if you'd like it,” Feyre imagined a shining golden halo over the man’s balding head. She was so grateful she couldn't even speak; she just dumbly nodded her head. “Follow me then, ma’am.”

Feyre hooked her worn leather bag back over her shoulder and followed him blindly up to the first class portion of the plane, leaving behind Pam and the nameless man and the ever-receding smell of tuna and vomit.

Forget whatever she’d said before about hating first-class. First-class was a godsend.

He gestured to her seat, a full-reclining chair against the left window. She skirted around the man on the aisle, a tanned black-haired young man with a purple eye mask and earbuds in. Even with half his face covered, she could tell he was devastatingly handsome. His lean but built body fit well in the chair and he had his feet crossed in front of him. He didn't notice her approach and she didn't want to bother him for fear that somehow this dream-like turn of events would pop like a bubble and she'd return to rib-pokey vomit land. She thanked the attendant profusely as he left and she took her seat.

She put in her own earbuds and started her Spotify as the flight attendants ran through the safety procedures. She waited, looking out the window until the ground slipped away, then closed the window and began working. She pulled out the manuscript she'd been assigned and her trusty red pen and continued reading.

The plot was interesting enough but the beginning was cliche. She marked up the beginning quite a bit, hoping the author might heed her suggestions and change the character’s backstory. I mean, seriously. The world has enough series about teens in fantasy universes who are too old for their age and support their useless families by hunting in the forest out back. It's like, is there really no other way to convey the fact that this kid has skills?

Her eyes continued on, tracking the lines until they ran into a tan hand. She stopped abruptly and looked up at the man next to her. And if she thought he was handsome before now it was like looking into the face of a Greek god. His hair was long on the top and he ran a hand through it to smooth back where it had fallen in a fringe over his eye. It looked whisper soft. His eyes, covered before by his mask, now shone in a blue so dark they were practically violet. In fact, the longer she stared, the more she was sure they were violet. He had a small amount of stubble on his chiseled jaw and he wore a silver smirk that tilted the rest of his face in a way that perfectly suited him.

Feyre couldn't breathe.

She saw his mouth moving but couldn't hear any words. “What?” she said loudly, before realizing she still had her earbuds in. “Oh,” she said lamely as she pulled out them out.

“What are you reading?” he asked.

Feyre slipped the manuscript back to the cover page. “A Court of Thorns and Roses,” she said. “It's a fantasy novel this person’s trying to get published. I'm an editor. Well, an editor’s assistant. So far it reads like a Beauty and the Beast retelling. The original fairytale,” she amended, “not the Disney remake.”

“Is it any good?” he asked with interest. “I see a lot of red pen in there.”

His voice was like liquid gold. So warm and shiny and smooth. And expensive. He sounded expensive.

“It's alright,” she said. “It's a pretty good idea. The plot is setting up to be pretty interesting, it's just taking a while to get there. And so far none of the characters are all that likeable except the protag and her love interest’s friend, but he’s a total jerk so even he’s pretty hard to like. But all in all, it's okay.”

“Tell me more,” was all he said.

She blushed a bit, but didn't know why. So she began explaining the plot to him in detail. “Well it's about the stereotypical girl who’s tougher-than-she-looks and the-only-realistic-one in her poor-judgmental-village. In my opinion, the opener is overdone. It's like, I've read the Hunger Games. And The Testing. And Divergent. And pretty much every other book series with a female protag nowadays. Can I read a series where there isn't a hardened girl with no faith in the world?” He nodded, with seemingly genuine intrigue.

“How else do you set up a girl in a series like that though? Isn't this the era of the orphan? Aren't these coming of age, hero’s journey books about the protagonist with nowhere to go, no one to run to? Both figuratively and literally? How else do you force her through this?” he asked. Feyre admired him a bit for asking.

“Well, in the book she kills a wolf who's not actually a wolf and then gets taken to faerie land by the fae king,” Feyre said. The violet-eyed man fought to hold back a smile at the mention of faerie land. “So, if she's going to be forcibly abducted and not allowed to return anyway, why can't her life at least be nice at the beginning? Why can't she have supportive sisters and parents who love her and not have to rough it in the woods everyday so they don't starve? Wouldn't that even make it a bit more interesting? Then she'd have a real reason to hate this guy for taking her away from her home. Instead she just doesn't care.”

“I see,” he said. “That makes sense.” Feyre shrugged. This was something she always dealt with in stories, but her boss loved the trope so she never got to say anything. It was kind of nice to vent. “Continue,” he insisted, “please.”

So she did. She explained the plot and the subtext she was picking up on and all the things she liked and didn't like about it all. She told him about how creepy she found the love interest. Borderline abusive, she called him. He asked why she thought that and she went to her actual notes and pointed specific page numbers where he'd displayed some creepy behavior. Mostly, she outlined the absolute power imbalance between them, and detailed how it would leave their relationship imbalanced and unsafe. He smiled at her list and the thoroughness of it.

“Interesting that the writer would introduce a love interest if the situation’s so wrong,” he said. “He must have a reason. Maybe he plans on discussing it in the sequel.”

“Yeah, but that's assuming he'll get a sequel. Or that all his readers will read the sequel. What about all the girls who read it and then never see the sequel and are too young or not worldly enough to recognize the relationship as abusive? They'll put the couple on some kind of pedestal and never realize that behavior is dangerous or wrong.”

He nodded, as if he hadn't considered that an option. He asked her to continue with the rest of the plot.

“That's as far as I've read,” she said. “I don't have anything else to tell you.”

“You haven't gotten to the good part then yet, I guess,” he said. Feyre found it curious. How would he know what the good and bad parts are?

“I'm sorry, I never introduced myself. I'm Feyre Archeron. You are?”

“Rhysand Starling,” he said. “It's a pleasure to meet you.”

“Oh my god,” she said. She flipped the manuscript back over to be sure. But she knew. And sure enough, there it was.

A Court of Thorns and Roses

Rhysand Starling

She wanted to jump out the window for the second time on that stupid flight. “Oh my god,” she repeated. “I am so sorry.”

He laughed lightly and put his hands out. “No,” he said. “It was actually perfect. I really appreciate your honesty. And your voice is very clear and direct and you seem to understand the pace and flow of the book in a way others usually don't. You're a fantastic editor.”

She blushed again. “It still is completely out of line. If my boss knew I did this, she'd fire me in an instant.”

“Is Diane Leaver your boss?” he asked.

Feyre nodded. “I’m her assistant.”

“God, that must be awful,” he laughed. “She's ruthless. And her nails are so long! I'm always afraid she's going to shred me to bits.”

Feyre laughed. “I've always said the same thing. And anyone I say it to looks at me like I'm insane.”

“Well at least we're on the same page. On the D-L,” he ducked closer and his voice dropped to a whisper. She could smell his breath, like mint leaves and something else, something sweet, “I've already finished a couple drafts of the sequel and I made a character inspired by her. It's called the Weaver and it’s an old demon creature who makes yarn out of people. She's scary as hell.”

Feyre laughed. “That's so petty,” she said. “I kind of love it.”

Feyre found conversation with Rhysand easy after that. They talked about how much they hated Diane and he asked more about what her job was like. They talked about publishing and the firm. They talked about their mutual love of Portland, of the bridges and the rain and the beautiful, dense evergreen forests surrounding the city.

“I hike a lot,” Rhysand said. “I try to get out there every opportunity I get. Which is pretty much all the time. My buddies Cass and Az make fun of me for it all the time.”

“So you have a lot of free time?” Feyre asked. “What, you're so confident in your writing you decided to just up and quit your day job?” She was playing with him but he smiled tightly. He looked a little shy.

“I didn't really have much of a day job to begin with,” he said.

“So you just prefer the starving artist life, then?” she said and nudged his arm.

“Kind of the opposite actually. My dad was Michael Starling of Star Initiative Inc.” It didn't ring a bell to her; though the way he said it, it sounded like it should. “His great great grandfather bought like 90% of the private land in Oregon and Washington from the farmers and settlers over a hundred years ago. He basically owned Oregon.”

“Wow,” Feyre breathed. She figured he must be worth billions.

“Yeah. He died in an accident when I was young, and he left the company to me and my cousin Mor. We don't even do anything. We just acquire wealth.” He shrugged, then had the decency to wince. “That was a supremely douche-y thing to say, and even worse to shrug at.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything, but yes. On both counts,” Feyre said with a genuine grin. “Although, isn’t that the kind of information billionaires like you tend to hide in public to weed out the gold diggers and assassins?”

“Well, I haven’t encountered any assassins yet. I’ve kind of been holding out hope that someone would come at me and I could unleash my orange belt expertise on them,” Rhys said, which made Feyre laugh. “And on the gold-digger note, I’m pretty sure an actual gold-digger wouldn’t red-pen my novel in front of me. But you never know, I guess. Could be some new tactics.”

The two laughed together. “So why are you headed to New York then?” she asked, shifting the subject.

“It's actually just a layover. I'm headed to Paris,” he said.

“No way,” she replied. “Me too. Are you headed to the global publishing expo out there?”

“No,” he said. Feyre hated to admit her heart sunk just a bit. “My cousin lives there. I'm spending a few days on my own in the city then I’m meeting her.”

“That's cool,” she said, and she wished she sounded more convincing.

“Have you been before?” he asked. “To Paris?”

“I haven't. I've always dreamt of it. Is it all they say it is?”

“And more,” he said. Rhysand launched in, telling her about all the beauties of the city. And if she hadn't already known, she probably could have guessed he was a writer by the vivid descriptions he gave. She was hanging on his every word. When he described the smells of the bakeries and the feel of the cobblestone under his shoes and the way the lights all shined on the Seine, she felt as if she were really there, as if she was smelling and feeling and seeing it herself. It was magical.

And then the attendant announced their beginning descent over the intercom. Rhysand reached into his bag and pulled out two pieces of gum, offering one piece to her. She thanked him and when she took it, their fingers brushed and she shivered.

Like full on shivered. Very conspicuously.

And wanted to jump out of the plane for the third time.

Until he gave her the warmest smile she'd ever received. And then she blushed. And he smiled wider. And she almost giggled. God, he was so gorgeous. He turned her into some kind of schoolgirl.

“From the cockpit, this is your pilot speaking. As you know we've begun our descent into the John F. Kennedy International airport in New York City, New York. Arrival time is set for approximately 8:54 pm, and we should be approaching gate D4 unless we receive word of a change. Weather is cloudy with light rain, approximately 46° Fahrenheit. Thank you for flying with us. I'll see you on the ground in just a few minutes.”

Feyre stretched a bit and opened up her window as she popped the piece of gum in her mouth. Sure enough, she could start to see the details of the ground as they re approached the cloud cover. She watched the descent, all the way until the jolt as the plane touched down and began the slow drive to the gate. When at last the light blinked, they took off their seat belts and started to rise.

“Well,” she said, “it's been really nice to meet you, Rhysand,” she said.

“Please call me Rhys,” he said. “It's what all my friends call me.”

His words made her feel inexplicably warm inside. “Rhys,” she amended.

She thanked the pilot and attendants as she left and headed toward the terminal, Rhys trailing directly behind her in the single file line.

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Feyre,” he said. “But why goodbye so soon? Are we not on the same flight next?”

“Well yeah,” she said. “But I was only in first class on an upgrade. I'll be back with the plebeians for the next flight.”

“I see,” he said, looking pensive. “In that case, thank you for the book notes. Maybe I'll see you around?” he asked. They had reached the crowded sea-like hallway of the concourse.

“Maybe,” she smiled. A girl can dream, she thought to herself. And with one last smile and a short little wave she headed off to find a bite to eat.


	2. JFK to CDG

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feyre and Rhys get more acquainted on the eight hour flight to Charles de Gaulle airport. Switching POV; some Feyre, some Rhys

“Now boarding flight A826, destination Paris, France. We’re proud to welcome our distinguished guests and elite flyers to board first!”

Rhys scanned the gate one last time for her. He couldn't get her out of his head. Her tousles of beautiful dawn colored hair, her gorgeous blue grey eyes, a color he'd only read of before but never truly seen, the light freckles on the bridge of her nose. She was gorgeous. And funny. And smart as hell. That was the best book review he'd ever gotten. He couldn't wait to call the firm and tell them to just replace Diane with her. Feyre would do a much better job anyway.

_Feyre._

Even just thinking her name was like breathing a deep sigh. He couldn't stop thinking about her.

And right now, their plane was boarding and she was nowhere to be found. He should have asked for her number or something. That way he could at least call her to tell her she was about to miss her flight. But he was a coward. So he hadn't.

Rhys fiddled with one of the buttons of his navy Henley. It was his nervous habit.

 _Snap out of it,_ he told himself. _You don't even know her. If she misses her flight, she misses her flight. But if you miss it, Mor will kick your ass._  

He had to admit, his subconscious was right. With one last scan and a sigh, he flashed his boarding pass and took his seat on the plane.

This plane was considerably smaller than the first, with only two or three seats per row in both first class and coach. He had an aisle seat again and the woman next to him was settled in with headphones, reading an issue of Glamour magazine. He sat too and pretended to look busy, trying to pretend he wasn't scanning the face of everyone who walked through to see if she made it. But he never saw her.

“And we are now closing doors,” the attendant said into her intercom. Rhys’s heart sank considerably more than it should have.

“Wait!!” he heard from the tunnel. The flight attendant looked over too, and they both watched as Feyre erupted into the cabin, hair wild and cheeks flushed. She must have run all the way here.

“Good evening ma’am,” the flight attendant said with a smile. “Please take your seat.”

Feyre straightened the hem of her shirt and started walking down the aisle, immediately catching Rhys’s eye. He made himself adjust, pulling his hands off the seat in front of him, and aiming to look as if he wasn't frantically waiting for her.

She smiled at him as she passed and ruffled the hair on top of his head as she walked down the aisle. She giggled as she did it and he felt like he was made of sunshine. She was so damn cute.

He turned and watched her make her way down the aisle to row 15 and sit in the window seat next to a kind looking young woman with copper hair. He couldn't stop thinking about how he wished he was sitting there with Feyre instead of that red-haired woman.

“Alright,” the flight attendant repeated, “doors are actually closing this time. If I could ask everyone to stow carry-on items, and—”

“Wait!” Rhys interrupted. This time the flight attendant looked less receptive. Nevertheless, she refrained from rolling her eyes and looked at him, allowing him to continue. “Just one moment, folks.”

Rhys stood and grabbed his bag and ran back to where the two were sitting. “Pardon me, miss,” he said to the redhead, “but would you be willing to trade seats? That's mine, up there in first class.” He pointed to his now vacant seat.

The two women looked at him like he was crazy.

“Are you sure?” the redhead asked. He nodded and stepped aside. She stood and started walking. “Thanks then,” she said.

“Rhysand Starling, did you just change seats for me?” Feyre asked as Rhys sat down in the aisle seat next to her. They were the only two in the small row.

“You bet I did,” he said with a warm smile. She blushed again. “I mean, you didn't think I was going to go the next eight hours without more of that entirely riveting destruction of my novel, did you?”

She laughed loudly. “Well, I did think you were going to want to go the next eight hours in a seat that wasn't comparable to that of a roller coaster’s. But to each their own, I guess.” Rhys laughed too.

“Better to spend it with a friend, I think.”

She smiled shyly and handed him one of the nodes of her earbuds, which were plugged into her phone. “Want to listen to some music?” she asked. He happily obliged and took the earpiece from her.

They listened to several songs. Rhys figured she had her music library on shuffle because it kept switching artists and styles and genres but somehow it all still sounded cohesive. He listened and wrote in his journal and she listened and read his novel.

Knowing she sat next to him reading his own words excited him in a strange way. He wrote it to be read, and it was in fact her job to do so, yet it still gave him an unusual feeling. He felt exceptionally vulnerable, and dizzyingly powerful at the same time. Having a stranger read wouldn’t bother him— _hadn’t_ bothered him. But now, putting a face and a name and a personality and a breathtaking smile to the concept of Reader gave him an odd thrill.

It took him a while before he noticed her pen had stopped moving. When he looked over, he noticed the pen was dangling from her slack hand. He looked down at her face and discovered she was fast asleep. She looked peaceful. She breathed in the small sighs of good sleep. He reached up and turned off the overhead lights they'd been using for reading. He looked at his watch. It was almost midnight. They'd already been on the plane for an hour.

He gently pulled the pen from her hand and placed it on her tray table and just as he did, she breathed in deeply and readjusted, shifting to the side a bit and resting her head delicately on his shoulder.

He sucked in a breath. “Oh my god,” he whispered. He carefully removed the earbud from his ear without hitting her head. As he did she let out a soft, short snore. It literally shattered his heart it was so adorable. _Breathe, Rhys,_ he reminded himself, _in and out. In. and out._

He thought she might wake herself up with the movement or come to. But after a full minute and a half, she still slept there soundly. Rhys smiled widely, without really meaning to. He just couldn’t hold it all in.

There was an older woman in the seat across the aisle who patted Rhys’s arm. “You two are such a cute couple,” she said. “How long have you been together?”

“Oh we're not together,” he said.

She looked confused. “Oh. Well, you must just be really good friends. How long have you two known each other?”

Rhys looked at his watch and counted back the time. “Uh… about eight hours.”

She looked even more confused now. “Ah…” she said, making a show of turning back towards her own seat, a visual cue that the conversation was very much over. “How… nice.”

She clearly thought them absurd. And the funniest part was that by all accounts, they absolutely were. But Rhys felt like, in his eyes, the universe granting him a little bit of absurdity wasn't too much of a problem this time around. So he gently laid his head against the crown of hers and closed his eyes too.

 

* * *

 

Feyre awoke with her head sandwiched between two hard-but-soft things. She was disoriented, and it took her almost half a minute to remember where she was, and who she was with. She was on her way to Paris. She had her head resting on Rhysand’s shoulder. Rhysand the Greek god. Rhysand the writer of the book she was editing. Rhysand the gentleman who gave up his first class seat to talk to her on this goddamn eight hour flight. Rhysand the best man ever. And his head was resting on hers.

She was stuck.

Not literally. She could very easily remove her head and all would be well. But the problem was there was no way to go about doing that without waking him. And if the even rising and falling of his shoulders was any indication, he was sleeping well.

The other problem was she really, wholly, truly did not want to move. So she didn't. With a small reach of her arm, she displayed the flight tracker on her little screen. They were still very much over the ocean, with a little over two hours to go. She pulled her manuscript off the tray table and started reading. It was a better read, she thought, now that she'd poked around in the mind of the author. It was easier to edit, too. Knowing that Rhys had a reason for making the love interest not a healthy partner and not just ignoring the signs of an abusive relationship made her feel a whole lot better. And the fact that he had plans to highlight the wrongs of the relationship was like icing on the feminist cake.

His voice was well developed. She could tell just from reading that he was a feminist, even if there weren't many overt feminist messages in the novel yet. It was nice to see a man embracing a female point of view without overly or underly sexualizing her or minimizing the scope of her impact on the universe. She was the protag. And she was a woman. And those two things weren’t conflicting at all. It was hard even to find female authors who could successfully pull that off.

Feyre liked tracking the plot. It was starting to really pick up and the element of mystery was engaging and exciting. At the same time, the witty and ballsy side of the main character started to emerge. The banter she carried with her love interest’s second in command had Feyre smiling and even once stifling a guffaw as the protag said something particularly funny. Feyre had been very critical in the beginning. But she had to give Rhys credit. The book wasn’t bad.

“So how is it now?” Feyre was startled by the sound of Rhys’s voice and quickly pulled her head off his shoulder, trying to pretend she didn’t miss it the second it was gone. “I mean, if all that giggling is any indication at least it’s funny. That, or it’s so bad it’s laughable.”

“Yeah, it’s the latter,” Feyre said, looking him dead in the eye. “Laughably bad.”

For a split second he looked like he believed her. “Just kidding,” she said with a smile. He visibly relaxed.

“Pretty cheeky, Ms. Archeron,” he said.

“Hey,” she said in mock defensiveness, “who are you to assume my marital status?”

“Oh,” he whooshed out a breath, and a look passed his face, a mix of surprise and sourness. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend, I just figured—”

Feyre breathed out a laugh and held up her right hand. She twiddled her fingers to show the lack of a ring. “I’m just messing with you!” she laughed. “I mean, come on, Rhysand. I’m a 26 year old woman living in in a big city. In 2017. I can’t be bothered to be tied down by any man.”

Rhys laughed at her obvious airs. “26?” he repeated, picking the detail out of the conversation. “I thought you were older for some reason.”

“Why?” she asked. “How old are you?”

“I’ll be thirty in November.”

“God, so you’re practically in retirement care, huh?” she teased. He rewarded her with a shy smile, the kind that showed itself in one’s cheekbones more than on their mouth.

“I guess,” he said. “So how does a 26 year old find herself working as a publishing assistant in the largest firm in Portland?” Rhys kept his voice at a low whisper, obviously trying to be courteous to the sleeping flyers all around them. The cabin was dark, just like the view out the windows. Feyre felt special, like they were in their own secret world. A whisper world where stars and dreamers coexisted in one beautiful, delicate bubble.

“I got the job right out of college,” Feyre said. “I went to school in California—San Francisco, actually—where I grew up. But I knew by the time I graduated that, although I loved the city, it was time to move away. So I left my sisters and my father behind and moved up to rainy Portland. I applied as a secretary and got the job. At first I was taking calls and fetching coffee. Then, one day, Diane left a manuscript out and I read it and penned a few notes. I did it in secret, thinking she’d punish me if she found out. But she apparently knew the whole time. She’d left it out as some sort of trap to see if I had any integrity; which of course, I didn’t. But when she read my notes she liked them. So I was promoted to Assistant, pretty much in title only. The pay grade’s practically the same. And I still fetch coffee. But now at least I get to fly to Paris for book expos on company dime.”

“Sounds like you’re living the life,” Rhys said.

“Well, not as much as the apparent King of Oregon over here,” Feyre said.

“I prefer the term High Lord,” Rhysand purred, making Feyre laugh. She covered her mouth with her hands to try to stifle the noise. She didn’t want to wake anyone. Or pop their bubble.

“Well,” Feyre nudged, “go on. Your turn to spill your life story.”

“I wouldn’t exactly call a recount of your professional life your ‘life story,’ Feyre, darling,” Rhys teased. “But I’ll be generous. I grew up right in Forest Park in the heart of NW Portland. I lived in this absurd mansion with my parents and my cousin, Mor. She was like a sister to me growing up. I’m actually on my way to visit her now. She took a trip to Paris a few years ago and just decided not to come back; she loved it so much.” Rhys shook his head. “Anyway, I’m off track. We grew up as spoiled, troubled private school kids who often got in trouble with other spoiled, troubled private school kids. Which is how I met my two best friends, but that’s another story. My parents died in an accident when I was eleven.” The way Rhys spoke of it was the way someone spoke about an injury that occurred so long ago, it had been absorbed into that person’s DNA. As if they’d been born that way, and would die that way. Unaffected.

“At 18 I was supposed to take over my father’s company. But instead, I split the ownership with Mor and then together we signed over the management to a board of directors we appointed. Then I split and went to NYU for school. I came back with nothing to do and no experience except an English Lit degree. So I got a job at a bookstore.”

“What bookstore?” Feyre interrupted. Rhys’s flow was irregular and a little choppy, so she didn’t feel bad butting in. He obviously didn’t speak about himself at lengths very often.

“Alphabet District?” his inflection wrapped it up like a question, probably checking her familiarity. The bookstore was a funny little literary pun for the name of the neighborhood where it was nestled.

“Oh my god,” she said. “I used to go in there all the time. It was one of my favorite spots to unwind when I first moved to Portland; it’s only a few blocks from my flat. It helped remind me why I majored in English.”

“Me too!” Rhys said. “I would shelve all these amazing books by new authors and literary masters alike and it just made me feel alive. I worked the cafe in the back for a little while and it was always slow. So I'd just sit back there and read.”

“I loved that cafe. I was in there all the time. It's crazy that I never saw you,” she said. “When did you stop working there?”

“About two years ago,” he said. “So I guess I just missed you.”

“Why’d you leave?”

“Well, I got a little _too_ inspired I guess,” he joked. “I quit so I could sit down and try my hand at writing. It's something I'd always loved but never thought I'd actually do. Then I realized the only thing stopping me from just doing it, was myself.”

“Wow,” Feyre breathed. “You're like a walking Nike ad.”

“Ha ha,” Rhys deadpanned. “I quit and started writing, waiting for something to come to me. And then one day, it just did. I saw this face in my head. And I just knew I needed to tell her story. That was almost two years ago. I've been fleshing out her story since then. And now here we are.”

“Wow,” Feyre said. And this time she meant it. “That's a pretty inspiring life story if I ever heard one.”

“Well what about you? What was it like for you growing up? San Francisco, you said?”

“Yeah,” Feyre said. She figured she owed him a little after the monologue-esque chronicling of events he'd delivered. “It was really more the suburbs across the Golden Gate. When we first moved there, the neighborhoods were old and kind. We were the cute kids on the block, my sisters and I.”

“What are their names? Younger or older?” Rhys interrupted.

“Both older,” Feyre said. “Elain is the middle child and the prettiest. She has this gorgeous full blonde hair. And you couldn't pluck all the flowers out of it if you tried. She's a florist,” she explained. “And it's really the most fitting job of anyone in the world. She's a plant whisperer. She's amazing.”

“Sounds like you really look up to her,” Rhys said.

“Well yeah,” Feyre said. “But not in the usual way I guess. She's beautiful and dainty but she's kind of a space cadet, if you know what I mean.”

Feyre had a far-off look in her eye as she smiled.

“Now Nesta, she's the complete opposite,” Feyre said. “Elain is always off in her own world, and Nesta couldn't belong more to this one. She has straight brown hair, the other spectrum end to my middle. She was kind of a brat. She was the most popular girl in her class, always. But she was kind of ruthless about it too. And though she gave in to the dynamics of high school, everyone always knew she was above them. She was always on the honor roll and runner up for valedictorian in her year. And she could be a total bitch,” Feyre laughed. “I used to hate her for the way she treated me. Always on me about my grades or about wearing better clothes or nicer makeup. I was the bookish nerd and she hated it. But over time I think I came to realize it was the only way she knew how to show her love for me, was to try to make me better in everyone else's eyes, by making me more like her.”

Rhys looked thoughtful. Feyre furrowed her brows. “I've come to appreciate the behavior. And she's mellowed out a bit too over the years.”

Feyre breathed deeply. “Anyway, rewind. Back to when we were kids.

"Our neighborhood underwent the expected Bay Area gentrification. It was old and sweet, with character, and old and sweet characters. And then, practically overnight, it just wasn’t anymore. It was competitive and blonde and very, very expensive.” Feyre remembered the shift in dynamic that changed her life. People couldn't be in their front yards unless they were dressed like they were prepping for a Sunset magazine shoot. It was a tough climate to live in, much less grow up in.

“It was really hard on my mom. I think she thought she had a lot to prove,” Feyre explained. “She changed a lot.” Feyre remembered watching as her mom slipped away and this new woman stepped in: skinnier, blonder, always recovering from some cosmetic surgery. “She would host book clubs in our model home where other women would just come over and drink wine and judge each other's lifestyles. It was awful. And my dad wanted no part of it.” Her mom had always pushed him to ‘get with the times’ but he didn't want to. He didn't see the value in it. And then one day he came home and found her in bed with another man. A modern one. One who fit the lifestyle she wanted. It was so much a part of Feyre’s history that she was numb to it, numb to her mother’s vanity and cruelty. “So she left and never looked back.”

Feyre would never forget how it devastated him. He didn't do anything but go to work and come home. Elain couldn't do anything because it wasn't how she was wired. She was too gentle and too gauzy to even notice the change. And Nesta was rarely home. She was at parties or up in the city or watching sunsets at bonfires in the ocean facing hills like the teen she'd always wanted to be.

“My dad sort of lost himself for a while. So I stepped up. I cooked and cleaned and cared for everyone. Nesta graduated and was off to Stanford. Elain graduated and chose not to go to college so she could focus on opening her flower shop. And then it was my turn. I applied to every far away school I could think of. I wanted to get away from my responsibilities at home. And then my dad was involved in this bike accident and I had to stay close. At first, he could hardly walk. So I chose USF, majored in English and drove home every weekend and most nights to cook and clean for him. I was your regular modern Cinderella.”

“Why didn’t your sisters help you? If Elain was there, why didn’t she help?” Rhys asked, looking for the information Feyre hadn’t disclosed. He immediately recognized his boldness. “I don’t mean to pry or intrude,” he said, scrambling.

“No, it’s really fine,” she assured him, laying a hand on his bicep. She fought her reaction at the feeling of his warm skin against hers. She continued, a little shakier than before, “For all her beauty and her rare strength, I just don’t think Elain was capable of helping. It was outside of her realm. And that’s okay.”

He nodded, trusting her affirmation. “So after college, you moved straight to Portland?”

“Yep. My dad had recovered pretty well and regained some of his mobility. Elain was settled and Oracle Florals had never seen so many customers. Nesta was working as a strategist for some major tech company. They were all good. So I left to go find my own life. And I guess I ended up on a flight to Paris with a riveting stranger in the end. So I can’t be doing too bad.”

“Not bad at all, I’d say,” Rhys agreed.

“So what other beautiful cities have you been to?” Feyre asked. “Besides Paris, I mean.”

“Oh, all the ones worth going to,” Rhys joked.

“Tell me about them,” she hummed. Sleepiness was making her bold. And boldness tended to bring out some of her selfish tendencies. Like, asking Rhys to tell meaningless stories just so she could hear his velvet voice. "I could listen to you describe things all day.”

“Well, Venice,” he said, “definitely had the most vivid colors….” 

And just like that, like it was routine, Feyre nodded off against Rhys’s shoulder once again as he recounted his conquestorial tales of travelling across Eurasia.

 

* * *

 

Feyre woke up to someone whispering her name. The voice was like honey; smooth and sweet and well-crafted. It was a very nice voice to wake up to. With some effort, she opened her eyes and reoriented herself. She was still on the plane, the one she’d boarded from New York, headed to the publishing expo in Paris. She was still in her economy seat, and her head was still resting soundly on the shoulder of the owner of the honey voice, who also possessed smouldering eyes the color of dark sapphires or expansing galaxies or, or… something else poetic and so-blue-it’s-almost-purple.

She hadn’t dreamt it all.

“I’m sorry to wake you,” Rhys whispered, “but there’s the most beautiful sunrise.”

 _Are you_ sure _you’re not dreaming it?_ Feyre had to ask herself. There was no way this was real. But she looked over to the window, which was still closed.

“I’m watching it through someone else’s window a couple aisles up,” Rhsy said. “But you have to see it. It’s incredible.”

Feyre reached over and began sliding up the plastic cover over the window and watched as the pink light seeped into the cabin. The view took Feyre’s breath away. It was a stunning array of pinks and blues—so many blues—that Feyre itched to paint but knew she could never recapture.

The colors got more brilliant as more of the sun slipped over the horizon, then they slowly grew more orange and pink and red.

“Stunning,” Feyre breathed. She shivered, both from the beauty and the chill of the air.

“Are you cold?” Rhys asked.

“Just a bit,” she answered. “I’ll be fine.” But Feyre knew it was a lie; she had left her only jacket in her suitcase. All her carry-on held was her manuscript and her wallet.

Rhys doubled over and dug through his bag for a moment. “Here,” he said, handing her something incredibly soft. It was a chunky-knit, grey cardigan, one which smelled like him. Not that she’d ever say that out loud. To anyone.

“I’m really fine,” she stammered, refusing the sweater.

“Please, take it,” he said. “I’m not going to use it.”

She smiled bashfully and pulled it around her frame, double rolling the ends of the sleeves so she wasn’t swimming in it. The soft knit instantly warmed her.

“Thank you,” she said as the pleasant smell of detergent and _him_ settled around her. It was a woodsy fragrance, like moss and freshly sharpened Staedtler pencils, with elegant notes of jasmine and eucalyptus and the cold, tossing sea.

She would drown herself in the smell if she could.

But that would be weird. And morbid. So instead she opted to look out the window at the rising, radiant sun. And feeling bold, she let her head fall against his shoulder. It wasn't the first time, but it was the first time she was conscious for it, which somehow made it feel a little more dangerous and a little more rewarding.

Rhys leaned his cheek against the crown of her head and she felt his face pull up into a smile.

“Tell me about your friends,” Feyre said. The way his voice had softened when he mentioned them earlier intrigued her. She was drawn to them, to whoever could leave such a profound effect on someone else.

“My friends?” he repeated. “Well, buckle in, Feyre. There are enough stories to last at least a couple centuries.”

So Feyre listened. She learned all about his closest friends, Azriel and Cassian, who had gone to various boarding schools with him as he grew up.

Az was quiet, unsuspecting, but spectacularly observant and perceptive. He could read someone else like a book, whether they were stranger or friend. He had an understated, dry sense of humor that didn't always show, but when caught in the right mood, he could have the whole room slapping their knees. He was quiet and reserved and subtle. But he was smart and attentive and loyal.

Now Cassian, he was like the other end of the spectrum completely. Cassian was just as loyal, but nowhere near as subtle. Cassian was loud and brash and bold and unapologetic. Cass looked and often behaved like a bear. But Cass’s life was ruled entirely by passion, and by extension, love. No one loved as fiercely as Cass, and no one would so willingly run towards a fight for that love.

Then there was Amren, who Rhys had met in college. Amren was so dissimilar to the other two that finding some way to contrast her seemed silly. She was miraculous in that she managed to pack the attitude of a thousand sassy suns into one compact, angry body. She had little patience, and was sarcastic to a fault, and was drunk more often than not, but she had a sobering talent for looking right to the core of another person and finding buried truths there. And under the monstrous, don’t-talk-to-me facade, she was a lover. And she cared deeply, even if she tried to hide it.

Lastly was Morrigan, his cousin. She was the definition of resilience, bottled up inside a body made of sunshine. She was golden and glowing and bubbly and made everyone she met feel warm. She had stuck by Rhys through all the toughest parts of his life; and him through hers. They were a pair; her the golden day to his inky night. She was his oldest, and his most honest friend, and he counted himself lucky to know her.

“She’s the reason I’m flying all this way,” Rhys said. “Well, partly just to get away from routine for a few days. But also for her. She went to Paris for a week and fell head over heels for the city. That was over two years ago,” he said, “and she hasn’t returned to the states since. Not even for holidays.”

Feyre marveled at the idea of settling down in a completely new place—knowing no one and nothing, but finding home. Feyre wasn’t sure she knew herself well enough for that to even be possible.

“I’m going to visit her and to try to convince her to come home,” Rhys continued. “Portland feels infinitely rainier without her sunshine in my life.” And Feyre imagined she must really be sunny, for the hues that now blanketed the skyline as they approached Paris were unparalleled. If Portland had lost its sun when Morrigan left, Paris was better off for it.

So Feyre smiled and settled down deeper against Rhys’s shoulder and watched the sun come up on the city of lights.

Feyre tried to pretend the lurch she felt in her stomach wasn’t because the plane was starting its descent. But she knew it was. Their minutes together were now definitively numbered. Feyre was afraid of the end of the flight; she’d made a friend on this overseas journey who she wasn’t ready to say goodbye to yet.

She felt some kind of tug pulling her towards Rhys, towards his warm skin and his dark, inviting eyes and his maddening smile. She wanted to know more of him. She wanted to know all of him.

But that was a silly thing to think about someone you barely knew, and so Feyre banished the thoughts.

Still, that dread remained. And it solidified as the wheels of the plane glided down onto the pavement of the runway. They were pretty far back in the plane, so they had a few more minutes together, plus the baggage claim. Feyre hated herself for counting.

“Feyre,” Rhys said, interrupting her mental math. Feyre loved the way her name sounded when he said it; like a promise. “This is a silly thing to say to someone I’ve known only for a few hours, but I am unendingly intrigued by you.” Feyre felt her cheeks heat; her freckles hid under the red glow.

She couldn't find an eloquent enough response, what with her brain feeling so drunk all of a sudden. “I was just thinking the same thing,” she said, truly surprising herself with her coherence.

“Could I have your number?” he asked, sounding like the dream boy in an early 2000s Disney Channel original movie. She didn’t realize that was a question people asked anymore. But she was glad he’d thought of it. She grabbed the cocktail napkin from her tray table and the red pen she'd used for editing and quickly scrawled her number. And then it was their turn.

He stood fluidly, grabbing her bag and his from the floor in the process. He handed her her bookbag and grabbed the napkin from her, carefully folding it and placing it in his pocket.

“You’d better invite me out to coffee in this glorious city, or I’m going to be a little angry,” she said, feeling bold. “Not now, of course,” she amended. “I have to be at my hotel by 7 for the expo. But I’ll be awaiting a witty text.”  
  
“Witty, you say?” Rhys feigned some kind of pedantic British accent as he asked. “Well I’ll do my best.”

They chatted all the way to the baggage claim, and their hearts both sunk slightly when they saw their bags waiting for them on the belts. They’d been hoping for more time.

“Well,” Feyre said, “I have a shuttle to catch.” Was she concealing the disappointment well enough in her voice? She wasn’t so sure.

“Are you sure I can’t buy you a coffee first?” he asked, trying desperately to keep from seeing her leave.

She wished desperately she didn’t have to. “I really wish. But you’ll just have to owe me one, Starling.” He returned her smile and she left, rolling her suitcase behind her, only letting herself look back twice.

Rhys walked quickly out of the gate and to the nearest food court. He was trying to outwalk whatever this feeling was in his chest. She was barely out the door and he already wanted to talk to her again, see her freckles swim across her cheeks again, hear her velvet voice again.

All he knew was he had to text her, and soon.

He approached a coffee stand and pulled the napkin out of his pocket as he did. He fingered the rough paper and looked at the red ink. But the moment he started to study the numbers, he ran right into another woman and was immediately covered in latte. His shirt was soaked; coffee dripped from his hair and his arms, burning his skin where it ran.

“I am so sorry!” the woman said, pulling herself back and righting the lidless paper cup. Rhys barely heard her, barely felt the burn of the hot coffee on his skin, as he watched the red ink bleed across the now-soaked napkin, the numbers running away into illegibility.

Feyre’s number was gone, as quickly as she was.

“It's okay,” he mumbled to the woman he'd collided with, though it felt far from okay. Now he wasn't sure if or when he'd see her again. What would she think? Would she think he was ignoring her? That he didn't _want_ to call?

He stood there in the middle of the food court, covered in coffee, without a single clue what to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if I like this one as much as the first one.. that's why I delayed posting it. but i tweaked for HOURS and figured this was as good as it would get. So!! I hope you enjoyed! Please PLEASE leave a kudos or a comment!! Thank you to everyone who did so with chapter 1. Lots of love


	3. City of Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a city of 2.2 million, there's no way two broken hearts could run into each other. Is there?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took forever. I'm in the middle of my second week of college and wow it's kicking my ass. But it's fun!! So fun. I hope this was worth the wait. Please leave a kudos or a comment and let me know what you think :)

Rhys felt like a complete and utter schmuck. He felt like all the problems in the whole damn world were entirely insignificant compared to his own. He had lost her number. He’d lost her number. He’d been so utterly entranced by her that he’d lost her number.

Schmuck.

“Are you going to just sit and feel sorry for yourself again today?” Mor asked, waking him from his despairing reverie.

He rolled over on her corduroy couch and buried his head into one of her truly ugly denim pillows. She and Andromache really needed to find someone to decorate thier apartment; it was awful. “Yes,” he moaned, the sound muffled by the pillow.

“Okay, well have fun I guess,” she said, picking up her ring of keys from the ceramic bowl in the entryway. “Andi’s at her mom’s until tomorrow and I’m heading to work. Will  you come by later?”

“Sure. I’ll text you a time.” As awful as Rhys felt, he was here to see Mor. He needed to get his shit together and actually spend time with her before he had to go home.

Home! That’s it. He may not be able to see her now, but in a matter of days he’d be home. And she’d still be his Editor’s Assistant. And he could just go to Diane’s office to see her.

He heard the door close behind Mor as his spirits lifted at the revelation. He’d see her again in a week.

But by then, a week and four days would have passed. She might not want to even look at him after that long. And how could he possibly explain the stupid story that was the truth, how could he possibly tell her he’d run into a woman and lost her number only minutes after he’d gotten it?

Rhys’s spirits dropped again. It was hopeless; he’d missed his chance. He’d been given one divine shot. One chance where every piece of him sang not to fuck it up: not to waste this once-in-a-lifetime feeling. And he’d fucked up anyway.

He buried his head back into the pillow.

* * *

It had been four days. Four days of workshops and keynotes and manuscript swaps. Four days stuck inside windowless ballrooms and break-outs, knowing the city of light and love and pastries waited right outside, right out of reach.

Feyre laid on her bed, her fawn-colored hair fanning out on the fluffy white duvet.

It had also been four days with no calls. No texts. No correspondence from Rhysand Starling. The god from the plane.

The god from the plane who said he'd call. The god from the plane who told her to await a witty text. The god from the plane who had attempted neither.

She knew it was silly to be so heartbroken; Feyre barely knew the man. She'd shared a few (albeit magical-feeling) hours with him on two flights. That was it.

And yet, every time her phone buzzed, her heart leapt into her throat at the thought that maybe it was _him_. She saw him in every dark haired or tan skinned man who walked past. She couldn't stop thinking about his voice and his eyes and the steady warmth of his shoulder as she rested her head upon it.

She looked to the chair in her room, where his grey sweater hung. She hadn't realized she'd forgotten to return it until she was sitting in the shuttle on the way to her hotel. She'd pulled it tighter against her to ward off the autumn morning chill, not even realizing it was there until that moment.

She'd figured then it gave her one more reason to meet him for coffee: to return his sweater. But that was four days ago.

And she hadn't heard from him once.

But Feyre was determined now to stop dwelling. She was in the city of light and love and pastries. And she would not let her wounded heart get in the way of her filling her stomach.

She picked up her schedule for the expo and saw there were more workshops to attend all day. She was blocked out for every hour until 7 pm. There was an entire hour devoted to a session about the discourse over the Oxford comma. And while normally Feyre could sit and discuss the Oxford comma for at least an hour, now, with all she had on her mind and all the city waiting out there for her, nothing seemed worse.

So she did the kind of thing she rarely did, she tossed her schedule aside and threw herself off the bed. She grabbed her book bag and, with a look out the window at the swirling September morning sky, grabbed Rhys’s sweater as well, slipping it over her shoulders as the door slid shut behind her.

Screw the expo. Screw the workshops. Screw the Oxford comma.

Actually, forget that one. The Oxford comma is a grammar necessity that must be recognized by the Associated Press.

But she was getting off track.

Screw the expo! Feyre was going to go see the city!

And screw Rhys! Feyre was going to buy _herself_ coffee!

She skittered out of the lobby, trying her hardest to avoid eye contact with anyone, lest they saw her skip and somehow tell her superiors. But once she was outside in the cool air, her worries seemed to melt. The air was charged with coming rain and she reveled in the feeling of it.

Feyre was a Portlandian by choice; she loved the rain. Nonetheless, she pulled Rhys’s sweater closer around her as she began her exploration of the city.  

She wandered for over an hour, just taking it all in—the cobblestones and the architecture and the timeless charm. Feyre felt lost in a fairytale. She felt… all the things Rhys had described to her. And she stupidly wished she could tell him so.

Just then, the sky finally opened up and the rain began to drizzle down. Feyre recognized the inherent Romance and chuckled to herself before deciding she really should find some shelter from the rain, poetic as it was.

The rain picked up incredibly quickly, pounding down on her by the time she found shelter. She ducked into the nearest cafe, a beautiful corner space with floor to ceiling, black latticed windows. Once inside, she carefully shook out her wet hair.

Looking up, she took in the cozy place. It was actually quite spacious, with a long counter and bakery display. The whole wall behind the counter was painted with chalkboard paint, and the menu was scrawled across it in beautifully scripted french. Feyre tried desperately to recall any of her knowledge from her high school french courses, though the menu itself seemed fairly self explanatory. There were only so many ways to spell coffee.

“Vous désirez, mademoiselle?” the barista asked, pulling Feyre’s attention from the grand wall. The barista’s beauty caught Feyre by surprise for a moment. She hadn’t been expecting such radiance on such a rainy day. The woman was tan, with golden blonde hair, and she practically glowed.

Feyre caught herself and returned the barista’s smile. “Je voudrais un café crème, s'il vous plaît.” She really wasn’t sure if she was speaking anything even close to coherent french, but the barista seemed to get the gist.

The woman nodded and took Feyre’s euros, then set to work behind the espresso machine.

Feyre took the moment to grab a table; one near the center of the space with a view of the large picturesque windows. She set down her bookbag and sat in one of the mismatched chairs. She thought about pulling out Rhys’s manuscript, but the wound felt too fresh to even look at it yet. So instead she retrieved her sketchbook and a charcoal pencil with the intent of sketching the view.

“Voici,” came a voice before Feyre even set her pencil to the paper. She turned and saw the barista, who wore a tight ribbed yellow henley and a pair of medium wash mom jeans underneath her red service apron. She wasn’t short, but not by any means tall either. She was of slight build, and very curvy, a fact which was made all the more apparent by her high waisted, tight clothing.

“Merci,” Feyre said, taking the mug from the barista’s outstretched hands. Her fingers warmed instantly as she wrapped them around the curved mug, decorated with what looked to be a print of Monet’s Water Lilies.

“De rien,” the barista said, heading back to the counter after a contemplative beat. She looked like she wanted to say something more, but hesitated and decided otherwise.

Feyre settled back into her sketchbook, electing to ignore it. She wanted to ignore all the events of the last few days actually, and lose herself to the focus of depicting the view. But in some cruel irony, the line that started as a lattice in the window somehow became the slope of a nose. And then there was the cut of a cheekbone and a sleek jaw. And then there were endless eyes, with layers that hid stories and words that Feyre could only guess at. And then there were lips quirked in an endless smirk. And refined but playful brows. And an effortless stack of dark wavy hair on his head.

She huffed and threw the page over the cover, not quite emotionally strong enough to tear it out and crumple it up.

“Excusez-moi, mais vas-tu bien? Vous avez l'air très troublé,” Feyre looked up to see the face of the barista once again. She looked around and noticed the cafe was entirely empty but for the two of them, so she couldn’t blame the barista for coming over. But in looking up, she’d missed her chance to really listen to the woman’s words and her french was nowhere near good enough to try to recall and translate in her mind.

Feyre did recall however, the one phrase her teacher had drilled into her head for if there was ever a real-life situation such as this. “Je parle un peu de français.”

“Do you speak English?” the barista asked in perfect English. She didn’t have even a trace of an accent.

“Yes, actually,” Feyre replied.

“Well then,” the barista said, “I just came over to see if you’re okay. You look rather anguished, and it’s not good for business if people are walking by these beautiful windows and seeing only anguished customers.”

Feyre smiled at the joke. “It’s kind of a long story.”

The barista waved her hand around the empty cafe. “I’ve got time. Lay your troubles on me, stranger.”

Feyre thought of the prospect of pouring her heart out  to this stranger. There was a certain appeal to it, but an overwhelming apprehension stopped her. She winced.

“Heart get broken?” The barista guessed.

“How’d you know?” Feyre asked with a dark laugh.

“I’m all too familiar right now,” she said. Feyre looked at the confident, glowing woman and couldn’t imagine her ever being any other way, let alone heartbroken. She seemed to understand Feyre’s wary gaze. “Oh, not me,” she said. “I know someone else with a broken heart right now. If you want, I can tell you a stupidly hilarious story to cheer you up. It’s a slow day, and you’re the only one in here.”

Feyre half smiled. She thought about it, and had to nod. She needed stupid hilarity right now.

“Okay so for starters, my dimwit cousin is like a wannabe writer. So he tries to be stupidly poetic in everything he says or does. It gets really damn annoying,” she prefaces. Feyre smiles, knowing the exact type of person the barista is talking about. “Anyway, he’s heartbroken too. But mostly because he’s an idiot. He met this girl and claimed all dramatically that they had a _connection_. Like, okay, sure. Because love at first sight is definitely a thing.

“He _claims_ it was a mutual thing, but knowing him and his effectiveness at reading other people, she was probably so not into him at all. Like, he has looks, if you like the tall, dark and handsome thing. Which I do not, by the way. But to each their own.” The barista waved her hands as she spoke, and had a mocking kind of glint in her eye, but it wasn’t malicious. It was obvious to Feyre that the barista really loved her cousin, no matter what she had to say about him.

“Off track,” she said. “Again.” The small phrase tickled at her memory, a sort of deja vu overtaking her for the briefest of moments, but she couldn’t piece it together quick enough before it was gone. “So he meets this girl and decides they have a connection. He gets all sweaty and nervous, as he does. It must have been like a hundred times worse too, because they met on a plane. Isn’t that weird?” Very weird. Feyre’s heart rate quickened slightly. There’s no way. It couldn’t possibly be…

“So they talk on this plane for hours and _hours,_ he says. He’s so intrigued by her, yada yada. So at the end of it all, he asks for her number. Says he can’t stop thinking about her. She miraculously gives it to him. Questionable decision, if you ask me,” the barista said. “Especially considering that until he was nine, he used to take this little drum and walk around his house playing the drum naked. He called it the Naked Marching Band. Granted, I did it with him. But it’s a lot cuter when a naked little six year old girl marches around with a recorder and plays a-tonal music than when a nine year old boy does it.”

Feyre wants to smile at the story. She wants to do anything at all. But there is a pounding in her ears. She feels frozen. There’s no way…

“So he gets this girl’s number and is all excited about calling her. I guess they live in the same city and everything, and just happened to be put on the same flights here. He even gave up his first class seat to sit by her. So he must have been really enamored,” the barista continued, unaware of Feyre’s slack face. “Not that I couldn’t tell by the sheer multitude of adjectives he had lined up to describe her _hair_ and her _voice_ and…” she trails off, looking finally at Feyre, whose expression is far away and slightly wincing.

“Oh sorry,” the barista said. “I guess that’s not the part a heartbroken person would want to hear. I’ll skip to the funny part. So he gets off his plane, all jazzed to call this girl. She wrote her number down on a napkin and he was so busy fondling it like a weirdo that he ran right into this lady. She spilled her coffee all over him, drenching the napkin and washing away the girl’s number.”

Feyre’s breath was caught. There was no way. No way it could be him.

Tall, dark, and handsome writer on a long flight here to Paris to visit his cousin. He met a girl and felt a connection. He gave up his first class seat to sit with her. She wrote her number on a napkin for him.

It must be some kind of freakish coincidence

“That was four days ago and he’s just been wallowing and whining since then,” the barista said.

She stopped breathing for a moment. four days.

Just a coincidence, she told herself again.

Surely she’d received her fair share of magic this week. She’d received enough for a lifetime, even if it had ended sourly.

The stars didn’t align this many times for someone, no matter how much her heart desperately wanted them to.

“You know, looking back, it’s kind of a sad story if he’s not your cousin. Maybe hearing about another heartbroken person isn’t the best heartbreak remedy, no matter how much of a dramatic baby the person is.”

Feyre regained control enough to chuckle at the barista’s joke, spurred out of her stupor by the barista quickly glancing up at the door. The shadows in the room shifted. Someone must have been walking past the windows.

“Speak of the devil,” the barista muttered.

Feyre’s heart lurched. It couldn’t possibly be…

She looked to the door. The bell above it rang quickly as it was pushed open.

And there he was, shaking the rain out of his inky hair. His skin was smooth and tan, dotted with droplets of water like morning dew. She gripped the edge of her table for support as his eyes finally met hers. She saw in them a sadness, immediately and completely replaced by a light so joyful, so blissful, her heart swelled. The pieces that before had felt jagged now smoothed. Where just before there were fragments, now there was a whole.

“Feyre,” he breathed, his face disbelieving. He took one step toward her and her face unfroze, breaking into a grin. He saw her smile and he sped. In half a breath he was there, pulling her into an embrace. She hugged back so tightly, trying to hold on to the illusion. He couldn’t possibly be here. It couldn’t possibly be.

But it was. He was.

He lifted her into the air in his sweeping embrace and she squealed at the sensation, the butterflies rushing in her tummy and his wet hair staining her neck with cold water.

When he set her back down, he didn’t fully let go. His hands lingered on her waist as if the moment he removed them she’d disappear. He exhaled a disbelieving laugh.

“I can’t believe it’s you,” she said, reaching a hand up to his cheek tentatively, testing to make sure he was real. “Is this a dream?”

His eyes searched hers, and she saw her own profound disbelief, her own childish wonder, mirrored in them.

“I don’t even know where to begin,” he said.

“Uh, how about with what the fuck is going on,” the barista said, drawing Feyre away from her trance-like vision. She couldn’t stop staring at him.

“Mor, this is her,” Rhys said, looking at Mor then quickly back to Feyre. He looked like a kid on christmas morning and Feyre beamed at the thought that she made him that way. “This is the girl I was telling you about.”

Feyre turns to look at the barista--Mor, Rhys’s cousin. “It’s really nice to meet you, Mor,” she said sincerely. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“And I, you,” Mor replied. She started again, sounding apprehensive. “So you two met on a plane to Paris, from Portland, had a connection, he lost your number, and then by chance Feyre just happens to walk into my cafe, on the day I’m working, on the day Rhys is supposed to come meet me, at the exact time Rhys is supposed to come meet me. And there are people on this earth who still don’t believe in fate?”

Feyre laughed at Mor's assessment; she reciprocated the exact same sentiments. By all reason, this should not have happened. But it had, and Feyre was inexplicably happy for it.

* * *

FA: finished  
FA: and might I add, it was an excellent ending indeed.  
FA: not many writers have the guts to kill their own main character.

RS: Well, she did come back to life.

FA: semantics.

RS: But I’m really glad you liked it! When can I expect Diane to turn it back over, you think?

FA: not sure. she’ll probably want to read over it once, so maybe a couple days.

RS: I miss you.

FA: I miss you too.  
FA: is it normal for a girl to miss a guy this much if she’s only known him a week?

RS: I think it all depends on how much the guy misses her in return.  
RS: And I miss you quite a bit.

FA: how’s Mor?

RS: Sunshiney as ever.  
RS: I realize now you have no context to understand that that was 100% sarcastic.  
RS: She resents me for trying to convince her to come back to the states. And for not finding you sooner??? Even though I literally had no way to contact you, and actually still managed to find you in only four days.

FA: four days can be a long time, starling. I know it felt like ages to me…

RS: Am I ever going to be able to repay you for that awful waiting period?

FA: A nice dinner and a movie wouldn’t hurt…

RS: I’ll be home in two days.  
RS: And I’ll do you one better.

FA: i’ll be waiting… 

RS: Then it’s a date

 

Feyre wasn’t even sure what “one better” entailed, but that fact had no effect on the rage of butterflies in her stomach. She had a date with her greek god, her dream guy. She couldn’t help herself, she threw herself back in her bed and giggled.

She rolled over and checked her clock. It was almost nine am; she was going to be late for work. She rolled up and readjusted her cardigan and the pins stuck into her hair before grabbing the manuscript and her bag and heading out the door. It was hard not to skip the way to the streetcar stop, knowing now what was only two days away: a reunion. But until then, she had to focus on getting his draft back to him. After all, he had a book to publish.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comment! tell me what you think! guess what "one better" could possibly mean! ily all thank you


	4. Back in Portland

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feyre and Rhys's first date!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We finally get into some real characterization and actual conflict! Angst! Wow! Things get a little steamy near the end!!

“You look beautiful,” Rhys sighed as he beheld Feyre in her opened door frame. She wore a midnight blue shift dress that skimmed her mid thighs. Half her hair was pulled up and twisted behind her, while the rest tumbled down her back in elegant waves. Her skin glowed under the light of her apartment, her freckles standing out here and there like the splatters of paint on a Jackson Pollock. She was the image of beauty.

One look at her and his nerves faded; thoughts of his sweaty palms and doubts about his hair melted away. He was just here, with her.

She blushed at his compliment, her face splitting into a beaming grin. “You don’t look bad yourself, Rhys,” she said, her grin never faltering. Rhys wore a dark blue button-down under a fitted black blazer and tight black pants, with his black desert boots. Smart, semi-formal. He’d need it for where they were going.

As if she’d plucked the line of thought right from his head, Feyre asked, “So where is it you’re taking me? I hope I’m dressed okay.”

“You’re perfect. But it’s still a surprise,” he said. He had a plan, one he hoped she’d enjoy. He’d made an educated guess based off what he knew of her so far, but he was still a little uncertain. He could be way off-base; only time would tell.

He took her hand as they closed her door and trekked down to the street from her complex. She had a decent sized modern apartment nestled on the tail end of the Alphabet District. The neighborhood was named so because the East-West bound streets moved in descending alphabetical order, starting with Ankeny and ending with Vaughn.

“So,” he begins when they step out into rain-scented air, “I thought we could walk down to Trendy-third for dinner.” She laughed at his tasteless joke, referencing 23rd avenue, the hub of Portland tourism. The Avenue was littered with boutiques, bistros, cafes, and a mix of lunch spots and upscale dinner spots.

“Sounds fun,” she said. Rhys figured she was familiar with 23rd Ave., considering she lived so close, and considering the bookshop they both loved was there. He had grown up not far from here, but growing up had spent almost all his time at home. Before his parents died, they’d privately hired all the services Rhys and Mor would need; they had private tutors and personal trainers and chefs and nannies. Then when his parents died, he was in boarding schools until college. He didn’t experience the city the way most Portland natives did.

The walk was about fifteen minutes long. They traversed through the residential neighborhoods, passing the area elementary school and adjoining park. Rhys recalled loitering there as a teen with Mor and Azriel and Cassian, when they were all home for the summers. They’d take over the swings at night, swinging in the cool rain and talking about whatever it was edgy, misunderstood teenagers talked about then.

When they reached the strip of businesses, they passed by Alphabet District Books.

“Do you want to go in?” he asked her, waving a hand toward the windowed storefront. The light inside was soft. Stacks of books rose up, overtaking the whole space. Just barely visible through the rows of shelves was a barista counter in the back—the one where Rhys had worked before he left to start writing.

He’d be lying if he said he didn’t miss it. Sure, he had plenty of burn scars on his wrists and hands. And the rush hour in the mornings was never easy. But he got to meet new people every single day. He got to surround himself with the smell of espresso and old books and actually get _paid_ for it. He’d long considered returning. But he was worried that if he returned now, he’d let his novels fall to the side. And he couldn’t do that. His characters deserved to have their stories told.

Feyre looked thoughtfully at the bookshop. Then, with a coy, seemingly private smile, she shook her head. “As much as I love it there, and as much as I love books, I can’t trust myself to go in there. I know if I walk in, I’ll walk out with ten books I can’t afford to splurge on,” she said.

While the concept of not being to walk away from a bookstore empty-handed was entirely familiar to him, the reluctance to do so wasn’t. Money had never been a factor for him. In anything. He sometimes forgot how much that affected his life, how removed he was from a normal life.

“Okay,” he said. “Maybe some other time. The restaurant’s only a couple blocks up.” They kept walking, passing the ice creamery with a line down and around the block, then the incredibly overpriced but oh-so-worth it sushi spot.

He turned them in and ducked under the doorway of the restaurant, holding open the door for Feyre. She stepped in and he watched her eyes adjust to the relative darkness of the restaurant. The lights were soft. There was a light fixture over each of the few tables, a hanging chandelier of bauble lights and cascading ferns. They cast an organic, homey feel over the whole restaurant.

“Table for two for Rhysand,” he told the hostess.

She flipped through her books before saying “Right this way, please.”

* * *

 Feyre took in the gorgeous space one more time. It was so magnificent in here. She’d lived here for years now, and had never been inside.

This place was definitely above her pay grades. The restaurant prided itself on being farm to fork—all their raw ingredients came from farms they owned and operated just outside city limits, or was sourced locally and organically. There was greenery hanging from the ceilings in the most picturesque way. She’d already discreetly slipped her phone out of her purse and taken a selfie from her lap. The photo was 20% her face—just from the tip of her nose up (and she really made sure to show off her highlight)—and the other 80% was a view of the gorgeous light fixtures and the trellis hanging over them—fairy lights and english ivy wound through and over it.

Feyre had been nervous the entire walk to the restaurant for a reason she was having trouble articulating. Every time she’d seen him before this had been almost like it was removed from reality. They were transient, temporary, magical places and situations. And now she was back in reality. This was her home, this was her neighborhood. This was real life.

She was worried that without the magic there wouldn’t be a spark. Without the magic, their conversations would be awkward, short, dead. They’d cycled through all the first-date talk she could think of on the flights and their conversations were dry as they perused the menu and ordered. She worried they’d run through all their magic.

The waiter returned to drop salads to a near silent table. She was worried. But Rhys dispelled all her worries. He seemed to sense her discomfort and knew just how to ease it.

“So I saw the cutest dog today,” he said, delicately stabbing a spear of lettuce.

“What kind?” she asked, feeling some of her nerves melt away. Just the thought of a dog—literally any dog—made a smile tug at her lips.

“I honestly couldn’t tell underneath all the fluff,” he said. “It was the poofiest little dog I’d ever seen. It couldn’t have been bigger than like 5 to 10 pounds but there was so much _fluff_.”

Feyre smiled wider. “I love small dogs. Well, who am I kidding? I love all dogs. But little small dogs, like terriers, they just kill me,” she said.

“I’ve always had a soft spot in my heart for Jack Russells,” Rhys said, then added, “and shepherds.”

They talked about dogs until salads were gone and drinks were refilled. And then the mood was lighter; conversation was easier.

“List your top five favorite classics. Go,” Feyre prompted.

“That’s a totally unfair question and you know it,” Rhys said with a laugh.

“Fine,” she conceded. “What are some of your favorites then?”

“Well definitely Gatsby,” he said and she nodded. “Always Gatsby. Then probably Jane Eyre?” He phrased it like a question, as if her question had a right answer and he wasn’t sure this was it.

“I love Jane Eyre,” she said. “Textbook example of Romanticism. And I’m a sucker for the Romantics. I love a good rainstorm when there’s emotional turmoil. The occasional bout of lightning splitting a walnut tree in half doesn’t hurt either.”

“Chestnut,” he corrected.

“Oh, how could I forget?” She was smiling recalling the novel. It was one of her favorites of all time, she had to say.

“Scarlet Letter,” he said, prompting another nod.

“The Awakening. Kate Chopin,” she offered. A wide grin overtook his face.

“You would say The Awakening,” he said, a hint of mocking in his tone.

She was playfully surprised by the accusation. “What is that supposed to mean?”

He couldn’t seem to wipe the grin off his face; she couldn’t either. “Well I just mean you seem like exactly the type of person to love a novel where the main character shirks all her earthly responsibilities to live a life of personal and immediate wish fulfillment and then _drowns herself at the end._ ”

“Well, what’s not to like about that? She explored her sexuality, was _totally_ having a secret sapphic affair, and literally births herself into the afterlife at the end,” Feyre defended the novel. She could still remember when she first read it in a feminist literature course in college. It was a novel about budding independence and self-discovery and womanhood and it was so perfectly timed for her in her life.

“Fine,” he conceded, throwing his hands up. “Catcher in the Rye, though,” he said.

She scoffed. “So you don’t like The Awakening but you like to read 200 pages of a pubescent, sex-intrigued boy realize he’s depressed over his brother's death?”

“Absolutely,” he said, smile unwavering. “It’s the end-all, be-all coming of age novel.”

She rolled her eyes and sarcastically hummed in agreement.

The waiter arrived with their entrees and the two set aside their conversations of books to indulge. Feyre ate slowly, savoring the dish. She’d ordered lemon poached salmon on a bed of garlic asparagus risotto and she was truly in heaven. The flavors were complex and complimentary and the food was so rich.

Conversation had slowed when the food arrived, each of them too entranced with their food to even be able to think about talking. Feyre looked up at Rhys from beneath her lashes. His face was turned to the side, looking out the windows at the front to the bustling street outside. She quickly glanced that way too and was surprised by the color of the light outside. The whole landscape had turned the kind of blue only a Pacific Northwest autumn could turn. It was only late September; few of the leaves had turned color. The greenery remained dark green and, coupled with the darkening blue-grey skies which whispered of coming rain, all the air was tinged a muted blue. It was a cold blue, but a comforting one. It was the color of Feyre’s home.

When she turned back to Rhys, he was looking at her. His beauty took her breath away. She seemed to frequently forget just how gorgeous he was; the color of his eyes, the soft tousles of his midnight hair, his sharp jaw and delicate cheekbones. Yet despite his delicate beauty and his obvious academia, he also possessed an air of rugged masculinity, one which had to be forged through hardship and endurance. He wasn’t typical in any way which Feyre could identify. He surprised her at every turn, and she loved it. She met his eyes and the intensity in them sent a thrill through her. She felt as if she was staring right into him; and him into her.

“What are you thinking about?” he queried.

She hedged the question a bit. “I’m just having a really nice time,” she said. “I’m glad to be here with you. Even if you’re a Holden fan.”

He smiled. “Me too, Ms. Pontellier.”

* * *

“Where to next?” Feyre asked, swinging her hands as they exited the restaurant. He’d promised her “one better,” and still wasn’t betraying his absolute secrecy on what that meant.

“Next, is the streetcar,” he said. They walked a block down to the streetcar stop. She quickly checked the map for the N/S Line, trying to deduce where he could be taking her. He seemed to sense her gaze and stepped between her and the map, taking her hand in his in the process. His hand was pleasantly warm and rougher than she’d expected. He seemed to be the type of man with rather soft hands, but the roughness of his told stories of lifting, fighting, work.

“What’s your favorite color?” he asked. She giggled at the silly surface-level question.

“Why do you want to know my favorite color?” she asked.

“Because I want to know everything about you. And the easiest way to do that is to ask you questions. Simple questions. Like, what your favorite color is.”

She flushed. “Yellow,” she answered. “Like a true, warm yellow; like Marigolds. You?”

“Blue.” He amended, “Blue-grey.”

The streetcar whooshed up, causing Feyre’s hair to fly. She pulled it from her eyes and they stepped inside. The car was fairly full so they reached up and grabbed hold of the straps coming down from the ceiling.

“So if your favorite color is that of a Marigold, are they your favorite flowers?” he asked.

When the car first started into motion, it caught Feyre off guard and she lurched with the movement. Rhys caught and steadied her with a hand on the small of her back. She flushed and smiled at him. Even after the car had been in motion for a few seconds, Rhys didn’t remove his hand from her back. She didn’t want him to.

“Oh, uh,” her mind was a little fuzzy from the contact. “No actually. I prefer carnations.”

“Coffee or tea?” he asked, continuing his questioning.

“Coffee, always,” she replied without thinking. He nodded in agreement. She said, “I like a good iced black tea, brewed extra strong. But hot tea has just never been my thing.”

“Favorite coffee drink?” he asked. “Mine’s a good cappuccino.”

“I like sweet beverages. Probably a vanilla latte? They never seem to disappoint.”

They continued like that, his hand on her back, asking and answering questions, as the streetcar stopped and started all along the North-South Line, until Rhys looked up and said, “This is us.”

Feyre carefully stepped off the streetcar and looked up. They were at one of Portland’s largest auditorium spaces, and the colorful banners hanging from the building spelled out the word _Macbeth_.

She spun around to face him. “No way,” she breathed. “Tickets for this show sold out _last year_. There’s no way you got your hands on them.”

“Kind of uh, special circumstances,” he said. “My mother adored performing arts her whole life, and my friend Az is a theater fanatic now, so... ”

She shook her head in disbelief, inferring what was going unsaid in his response. The movement tossed her hair, catching the light. Rhys absently noted it looked much like flowing maple syrup in its color and shine. But that wasn’t an exceptionally poetic comparison so he elected to keep it to himself.

He placed a hand on the small of her back and led her through the doors. He showed an usher some kind of ticket or pass and the usher looked slightly astonished before saying “Right this way, sir.”

Rhys smiled and waved him off, assuring the man he could find the seats himself. Feyre felt a little uncomfortable, like she was watching a scene out of a movie. For the most part Rhys behaved completely normally. But it was in moments like this that she couldn't forget just how wealthy he was.

Rhys took her hand gently as they walked down a flight of stairs and down a couple hallways before arriving at a door. People were already pouring inside the theater, clamoring to reach their seats in time for the lights to come up.

His hand felt comfortable in hers. She didn’t try to hide the display of affection from the passerby as she otherwise might have with anyone else. His hand felt right in hers; not warm, not cold, not rough or soft. Just, right.

Tonight had felt like a whirlwind. Like Feyre hadn’t had a moment to truly breathe all night because she’d been so caught in the present, so caught in his eyes and his smiles and his questions. All she’d been able to do all night was second guess herself. But this space between things, this walk to their seats felt very transitory, like she was standing in a train station, or sitting first-class on a cross-country plane. And that peculiar feeling reminded her of the thrill of her predicament: that her entire life was in her hands. She could be and think and do whatever she wanted. She was in control.

It was a comforting beauty, that feeling. One that she wanted to hold on to as long as possible.

They emerged into the heart of the playhouse seats—orchestra level. He walked them to the eighth row, where all the seats were filled save two, in the dead center. Feyre couldn’t believe it.

These were most definitely the best seats she’d ever sat in, aside from the time Elain was in a production of The Sound of Music in high school, and Nesta and Feyre had sat front row to watch her. She’d played Luisa, and played her perfectly, even if her voice had cracked once at the beginning of _Sixteen Going on Seventeen_. They’d brought flowers for Elain and Nesta had snuck in a bag of chocolates under her coat for the two of them to snack on during the show, giggling as they passed the unsuspecting (and in hindsight, uncaring) ushers. It was one of the rare times after her mother’s departure where Feyre felt like she belonged to a true family.

People stood from their seats to let Rhys and Feyre pass. They were the youngest two people in the row by at least twenty five years. Feyre found herself blushing as she passed them, for reasons she couldn’t articulate. She felt very much like a child sitting at the grown up table of a dinner party for the first time, knowing in the back of her mind that she still didn’t quite belong.

“This is unfair,” she said as she sat down in her velvet seat. Rhys didn’t remove his hand from hers, and she had no plan to either.

“What?” he asked, amused by her words.

“Well how am I ever supposed to come close to this?” she asked. “My idea of a fancy date is putting on Frontline instead of New Girl and splurging on gelato instead of regular ice cream.”

“I love both Frontline and New Girl,” he said. “Though if I’m being honest? New Girl is way more fun.”

His assurance put a small to her face just as the lights dimmed quickly, then came back up, signalling it was time for everyone to take their seats. Once. Twice. Three times. When almost all the audience members, the lights fell for the last time.

Out of the last vestiges of light, Feyre saw Rhys turn and smile back at her. The warmth in her heart was overwhelming at the sight.

“There’s daggers in men’s smiles,” she teasingly quoted the coming play, and with just an ounce of nervous hesitation leaned her head against his shoulder, like she had on the plane that already felt like a lifetime ago, like someone else’s life. But it wasn’t; it was her own. And she was so glad she got to be the one living it.

 

* * *

 

 

“That was _insane_!” Feyre said as they exited the theater into the chill, dark night. The other theater-goers were filing out around them, creating a bustle. “I mean the scene with Lady Macbeth’s possession—she undoubtedly stole the show. I’ve never seen anything like that! That was the high—”

Her sentence would have ended with her saying that was the highlight of her year, maybe of her life, but she was interrupted by Rhys taking her face in his hands and pressing his lips to hers. She froze, taken aback buy the sudden action. He misinterpreted her moment of pause and pulled away quickly, face already flushing with embarrassment and apology. Before he could pull all the way away though, she rose on her tiptoes to meet his lips again, showing him her earnest, her want. He responded in kind. Like they had been in Paris, his lips were soft and warm and this time they held a new thrill. She could practically taste his exhilaration, his elation. She leaned in to the kiss wholeheartedly, forgetting they were in public, forgetting this was their first date, forgetting everything. There was just him and her and their lips and _this kiss_.

When he pulled away, they both were breathless. Feyre sank back to the ground off her tiptoes. “You just looked so beautiful, getting this excited over Macbeth. It just made me want to kiss you so badly,” he said.

“Then I should talk about Macbeth more often,” she teased. She bit her bottom lip as she smiled before pulling his face down for just one more.

* * *

 

The ride back to 23rd was full of more questions, as was much of the walk back to her place from there. They started with favorite books from childhood, Harry Potter topping both their lists, then moved onto favorite meals to eat versus favorite meals to cook, plus favorite snacks, favorite breakfast foods, then imaginary friends from childhood, favorite cars, favorite bands, favorite songs, pretty much every favorite Feyre didn’t think she’d be able to name, she could and did. But about two thirds of the way back to her apartment, Feyre wearing Rhys’s sportcoat to stay warm in the chilly night air, the undercurrent of the conversation shifted, just slightly. Their conversations were still light, still fun and flirty and curious, but now the crowds had disappeared, the night had settled in heavily, and their words and actions echoed implications which made Feyre’s insides knot with anticipation.

When finally they reached her complex, she took his hand in hers as she started up the half-set of stairs to her stoop. She turned her back away from the door to look him in the eyes and say, “I had a lot of fun tonight, Rhys.” Her words didn’t hold the finality one would expect; there was an ambiguity there, a beckoning, in which she was saying the night didn’t have to be over yet.

Feyre stared up at him, facing away from her door, anticipating the coming kiss. She sucked her bottom lip between her teeth and watched his eyes follow the movement.

“I had a lot of fun too,” he said. His voice was slower than usual, lower. “Thank you for such a wonderful night.”

He sure was dragging this conversation out. Finally (finally!), his eyes dragged up from her lips and locked onto hers. His hand came up and held her cheek delicately and he leaned down to kiss her. Her eyes fluttered shut just in the nick of time. When his lips touched hers, his intentions were quite obvious: a sweet, respectful, goodnight kiss. But Feyre had other ideas. Her hands snaked up his chest, over his perfectly rippled shoulders, to clasp around the back of his neck.

She pulled him closer, deepening their kiss. She parted her lips and tasted his surprise and delight as his tongue delved into her mouth, and hers into his. He was an expert kisser, by far the best she’d ever seen. It was clear in the softness and warmth of his mouth, and the thrill he left behind in her.

She broke away, breathless, and his mouth moved, kissing against the corner of her mouth and then down, to her jaw. She backed up, pulling him with her until her back hit the front door. She moaned as Rhys found that one extra sensitive patch of her neck and sucked.

Her fingers worked through his soft tousles of midnight hair. When she tugged against a thick lock of it, he groaned and pushed his hips in closer to her. His presence—his smell, the hot sensation of his lips on her neck, the feeling of his body pressed right against hers—it had her on fire, like she was swimming through molten gold, but she never wanted to stop.

Her hand fumbled in her purse for her keys and when she finally found them she reached back and pushed the key into the lock, then opened the door. His hands encompassed her hips as she walked backwards through the door. Her lips found his again as he shut the door behind them and she flicked on the entryway light. She broke away once more, both of them breathing heavy, and kicked off her offending heels. A lazy grin graced his face, contrasting with his dark, hooded eyes.

“Hello MTV and welcome to my crib,” she said, barely giving him time to take in the homey but minimalist apartment. She reached up and pulled his head back down to hers, revelling in the feeling as he sucked on her bottom lip. His hands moved up and down her back—waist to hips to waist—as he kissed her with fervor.

Her hand snaked down from his neck to his hand, so she could clasp it in hers. She pulled her lips from his to lead him out of the doorway and over to the small couch.

“Beautiful living room,” he said as he sat down.

“Shut up and kiss me,” she replied. And he did. And she couldn’t get enough.

They started out sitting adjacent, bodies angled together. But that wasn’t close enough. This was Rhys. Rhysand. The man who’d sat through her (sometimes scathing) criticism because he valued her honestly that much. The man who’d given up his first class seat on an overseas flight, just so he could talk to her more. The man who’d given her his sweater to ward off the chill, who’d nervously asked for her number then tragically lost it. The man who—despite all odds—had somehow found her again, just in time. The man who’d taken her on the most romantic first date she’d ever been on; who’d taken her to see Macbeth, something she’d dreamed of doing since she was young. The man whose kisses made her feel alive, made her feel recognized in a way she’d never felt before.

She wanted him. All of him. Everything she could get. There was no doubt in her heart, or in her gut—which was both warm and soft and coiled tight—that she wanted him.

With his help she hitched her leg over his lap so she straddled him. Her dress rode up around her lightly freckled thighs. Her underwear rested against his dress pants and she could feel him, straining under the fabric. She moaned into his mouth, causing him to groan in return. Her hands came up to his collar and with a moderate level of difficulty—her mind was elsewhere after all—she unbuttoned the top few buttons of his shirt, just enough so she could push the fabric back and expose his chest and shoulders. She kissed her way down from his mouth to his jaw. It was jus slightly stubbled, tickling her lips deliciously. She reached his ear and traced her tongue around the shell of it. It was something she’d read in a romance novel and had always wanted to try. He groaned, making her insides tighten.

His belt buckle was hitting her abdomen at an awkward and uncomfortable angle. She snaked her hands down from where they’d rested on his chest, tracing his abs, until they hit his belt. She started to loosen it and suddenly Rhys froze completely.

“Wait,” he said, sounding breathless. Her hands immediately stopped their movements. He pulled his hands off her hips and threaded them through his hair. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But I-I-I ne-need to stop.”

Feyre felt the sting of rejection lancing through her as she extricated herself from his lap. When he looked up at her, his face burned with shame. Was he ashamed to be with her?

“It’s not you,” he said. He saw the hurt in her eyes, her jaw wobbling of its own accord. “I promise it’s—God, it isn’t you Feyre.” There was so much conviction in his soft tone, so much regret. He took her hands and implored her, “This has _nothing_ to do with you. I just—I need to go slow.”

She pulled her dress down around her exposed thighs, feeling embarrassment running through her system. Though she didn’t totally understand, and still felt the horrible sting of rejection, she nodded. His breathing was still labored, as was hers.

“I had so much fun tonight,” he said. “More fun than I’ve had in a long time. And I can’t wait to take you out again, if you’ll let me.”

She chewed on her bottom lip, but nodded. Rejection or no, she did want to see him again; that much she knew.

His face broke out in a grin, if a little shy still. “Perfect,” he breathed. “Then I-I guess I should go, then.” She nodded, needing some space to breathe. He stood, not removing her hands from his. “Thank you for an incredible evening, Feyre.”

She wanted to reply, but her throat was still too thick with hurt, so she nodded again. He went to the door, said he’d call her, and took his leave.

She was left there, feeling above all confused. She’d never been shut down like that before. Was he not attracted to her the way she was to him? It wasn't hard to believe, considering his looks. Feyre knew she was a decent looking girl but next to him, she had to look downright ordinary, as he was anything but.

She’d made him uncomfortable, that was beyond doubt. Had he not been into it? Had she completely misread the situation? Was she being too forward? Forcing herself onto an unwilling partner?

Her cheeks burned with mortification. She felt stupid. She’d messed up and wasn’t even sure how. Fat, hot tears filled her eyes and threatened to spill. She scrubbed them away, leaving a dark trail of mascara on her hand and her face. The tears fell anyway. She huffed and stood, storming into her bathroom. A glance in her mirror showed a disjointed picture—smeared mascara and tear trails down cheeks delicately flushed from desire. Her lips were still swollen and pink from his kisses and her hair was mussed up from where his hands had roamed through it. She pulled her hair over one shoulder and there—a splotch, rapidly forming into a hickey, was there on her pale neck, just barely concealable by her hair.

Everything had been perfect, until it hadn’t been. And she didn’t even know why it had changed.

She furiously scrubbed her makeup off with a cleanser and pulled her dress off over her head, reaching for the nearest pair of sweats. She stayed just like that, in her oversized grey sweatpants and just the fancy bra she’d worn for him, and went back out to the couch to grab her phone.

*12 minutes ago*  
RS: It’s not you, Feyre. You are so beautiful. Beyond beautiful. I just need to move slowly. I promise I’ll explain eventually, I just need more time. If that’s a dealbreaker for you I understand.

*3 minutes ago*  
RS: I really like you. Like a lot.  
RS: I’m sorry.

She sniffled as she read the texts, already feeling the beginning of a headache already creeping in. At least here, now, she knew. It wasn’t her, she knew.

FA: It’s okay. I had a wonderful evening. I’m sorry if I made you feel pressured. Take your time.  
FA: I really like you too.

RS: Goodnight, Feyre.

FA: Goodnight

Feeling more reassured than before, she threw on a t-shirt, plugged her phone in, and went to bed. 

* * *

 “You gonna tell her?” Mor asked, her voice coming in crackly over the phone. She sounded groggy too. It was morning there, he realized.

“Of course I’m going to tell her,” he said. “It’s just a lot to drop on a girl. I don’t want her to think of me as a project or anything.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Mor said. “You’re not going to become a project.

“I know,” Rhys said, recognizing his own irrationality. “It just still feels fresh. It makes me feel vulnerable. And I’ve never told anyone but you and the gang; you know that.”

“So make her part of the gang,” Mor said. “You know Cass and Az would love her. Amren too.”

The idea was very appealing to him. He did want to introduce her to his friends. But they’d only really been on one date. It felt a little soon.

“I will,” he said. “Eventually. I have to see if we make it through a second date first. She might wake up tomorrow and decide she doesn’t want to see me again after tonight.”

“Mmm,” Mor hummed.

“Thanks for your help, Mor.”

“Oh,” she said.

“No, it really means a lot.” he said.

Mor hummed again, then said, “Andromache, stop. I’m on the phone!”

“Oh, gross!” Rhys whined. “Bye, Mor.” She giggled, squeaking out a quick “bye” before hanging up.

He threw his head back against his pillow. Every time he closed his eyes he saw the look of hurt on Feyre’s face: the rejection and the embarrassment and the welling tears. And once that painful image disappeared he saw _her_ face next. _Her_ harsh features and remorseless glare. The reason for his weakness, for Feyre’s pain.

He felt the panic creep in at the sight of her face, her bright hair. He felt himself start to slip, felt the sounds and the sights of reality fall away. Only the tight balling of his fists, the sensation of fingernails biting skin, kept him grounded, kept him from falling into a full blown panic attack.

When at last he could breathe evenly, when he could relax his fingers, he reached for a tissue to blot away the blooming crescents of blood in his palm.

When his hands were clean he sighed, feeling the waves of his own failure wash over him as he drifted into peaceless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for leaving it on a sad note!! This was my first attempt at writing ~steaminess~ so please leave a comment and let me know what went well, what went wrong, where i could improve, etc. 
> 
> I love you all, thanks for reading! More to come soon :)


	5. That 9-5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feyre receives a surprise at work + Lucien!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's Day! This chapter is less action-packed than usual, but we get to see a little more of Feyre's day-to-day and we get some sassy, nosy coworker Lucien. Enjoy!

Sunday passed without much incident, save for more overthinking and embarrassment on Feyre’s part. Rhys texted her once more to thank her for the previous night, which warmed her heart, but their conversation was brief. Feyre tried to get ahead on her manuscripts, putting together her three coverages for Diane to read, but everytime she reads her sci-fi novel the male pro-tag’s low voice sounded too familiar in her ears and the descriptions of his soft skin left whispers dancing over hers.

 

She switched to the romance novel, set in the war of 1812, but that made it worse. The narrator couldn’t stop thinking of the charming man who owned the hotel she stayed in. Her inner monologues were consumed by him: his stolen glances, his featherlight touches, the feel of his lips against her ear as he whispered—

 

She switched back to the sci-fi, then the romance, alternating so she didn’t get too sucked in to either novel. When finally Feyre finished both, she yawned widely, briefly thankful she lived alone so no one else could see the sheer ugly which was her yawn just then. A glance at the clock told her it was past ten.

 

She packed her bag for the morning and fell asleep quickly, pleasantly sleepy from the day of reading.

 

Morning came fast. She had to hop out of bed and pick an outfit quickly. She decided to wear her new crepe shirt, in its soft blue color, to highlight her eyes. She ran to the bathroom to swipe on a layer of makeup just to brighten her face a bit and was painfully reminded of the hickey on her neck.

 

Feyre had never been one for hickeys; she thought they looked trashy. But there was something else to this one, knowing who had put it there. A small, embarrassing part of her almost wanted to wear it proudly, like a medal.

 

The rest of her was mortified that it was there. Feyre took an extra twenty minutes out of her morning to carefully style her hair in loose curls. The volume and shape of the style concealed the hickey well, as did the makeup she patted onto it.

 

Once she was all dressed and presentable, she stuffed her laptop and keys into her bag, grabbed her raincoat and left. She was all but running to the office, speeding into and out of the cafe a few blocks from her building to get Diane her latte. It was Monday and Feyre knew how Diane hated Mondays. With the coffee in hand, Feyre walked the last few blocks to her building, thankful the sky was clear enough not to warrant her jacket.

 

“Morning,” Feyre called to Dan, the building’s doorman. He was a kind old man who never failed to make Feyre smile. “Lucien here yet?”

 

Dan shook his head, his polite smile disappearing inside his thick white mustache. Good. That meant she was the first in. She walked to her wing of the building and settled into her desk. It was the first one off the hallway and Lucien’s was directly behind hers. On her right, halfway between Feyre’s and Lucien’s desks was the door to Diane’s office. One side of the door was bordered with walls of glass, making Diane’s desk visible to Lucien and Feyre. The other half was the same beige wall as was everywhere else in the wing.

 

Feyre pulled out her coverages and her laptop, getting all her things situated for the day. She left Diane’s latte at the head of the desk, so her boss would be able to see it and grab it easily when she got in.

 

Lucien came into view then, carrying a travel mug full of what she assumed was his typical black coffee. Lucien was a caffeine addict if Feyre had ever seen one; he could not function without the caffeine in the mornings. He grunted and raised his tumbler in her general direction, the only hello she’d get until the caffeine kicked in a bit more.

 

Diane seemed to be late, so Feyre settled into the third and final manuscript she had for today, just to pass the time. Close to an hour passed before Lucien said, “Good morning.”

 

Feyre spun around in her chair to face his desk, offering him a smile. He smiled in return. Their relationship was finally starting to find an equilibrium—finally returning to something normal after the Tamlin fiasco. When Lucien had first started at Bridgetown Publishing, he had quickly become Feyre’s new best friend. Several months later, Lucien had finally connected her with his best friend, thinking they’d make a great couple.

 

She and Tamlin had dated for over eight months before she found out he’d had another girlfriend all that same time, Ianthe. Lucien claimed he hadn’t known until the last month or so but for a long time Feyre was too hurt and angry to believe him. Even then, she felt betrayed that he’d known at all. It took her another few months to finally genuinely forgive him. Now, their relationship was weaker than it once was, but growing steadily. He wanted to fix things with her, and she did too.

 

“How was your weekend, Feyre?” Lucien asked.

 

“It was,” she paused, deliberating. Her mind went first to her crying in her bathroom after the mortifying rejection from Rhys. But then she remembered he had a reason for stopping her, one he said he’d explain eventually. When she removed that particular memory, her weekend had actually been exceptional. She’d been taken out on quite possibly the best date of her life, then had a whole day with nothing but rain and reading. “It was great,” she finally concluded. “How about yours?”

 

“Good,” he said. “I went hiking with… some friends,” (he did well not to mention Tamlin around her, which she greatly appreciated), “and then had a nice lazy Sunday. I was trying to rejuvenate before coming back to work for the devil.”

 

And speak of the devil...

 

“What are you doing sitting around?” came Diane’s shrill voice.

 

Diane Leaver was an older white woman with long, bushy, greying hair. At this point it was really much more grey than it was the blonde of her youth. She wore large, thick-rimmed round glasses and had breath which constantly smelled of old coffee. Her office was filled with textiles—hand-knitted and -crocheted and -whatever else by Diane herself. She had dark brown eyes which apparently could see everything at all times and she was not afraid to yell. Loudly. At anyone. About anything.

 

Some days were better than others. Some days, Diane would walk in, complain about the weather or the doorman or the commute or whatever else, grab her latte, and retreat to the office, where she’d yell for the things she needed throughout the day. Those were the good days.

 

Today was apparently not one of those days.

 

Lucien straightened in his chair, sitting taller as Feyre spun around and scooted into her desk, facing Diane with a level, professional gaze.

 

“Where’s my latte?” Diane demanded, unnecessarily loudly. Feyre dutifully handed it to her.

 

Diane took an exceptionally long sip before scowling and unceremoniously dropping the latte back on the desk, letting it fall through the air before slamming against the tabletop. Latte splashed up out of the top and landed all over Feyre’s relatively new shirt, which was now ruined.

 

“That drink is cold,” Diane said with disgust. Feyre wished she could fume, but instead she calmly reached for a tissue off her desk and did her best to blot up the mess.

 

“Would you like me to fetch you a new one?” Feyre asked.

 

“Yes, you might as well,” Diane said. “And put a sweater on or something while you’re at it. I have clients coming in today and can’t have you looking like a slob.”

 

With great effort, Feyre smiled and stood. “Here are my coverages from this weekend,” she said, handing them to her devil boss. “I’ll be back soon.”

 

Diane disappeared into her office as Feyre reached into her bag and pulled on her cardigan. She wrapped it across her torso in an effort to conceal the the coffee stains.

 

“Boy, am I glad my desk is in the back,” Lucien said from behind her. She covertly flipped him off as she grabbed her wallet and headed out the door.

 

Feyre all but ran down to the coffee shop and ordered Diane a new large latte (extra hot). Just as she stepped back outside the sky opened up, drowning her in downpouring rain. In seconds, her sweater was soaked through and she could feel the rain seeping into her coffee-stained shirt as well. Her carefully styled hickey-concealing curls fell flat and stringy as water poured down her head.

 

This day was not going in her favor. Obviously.

 

“You look pretty wet there,” Dan the doorman said as she slipped into the building, leaving a trail of water behind her on the floor. She tried to be friendly—Dan hadn’t done anything to her, after all—but the best she could manage was a tight smile in response.

 

When she got back to her wing, she went straight into Diane’s office and dropped the drink.

 

“Get out of here, Feyre,” Diane cried after taking the latte. “You’ll get water everywhere!”

 

“You’re welcome,” Feyre muttered under her breath, too low for anyone to hear, as she exited the office. _Kill me_ , Feyre mouthed at Lucien as soon as the door closed behind her.

 

He smiled, then his eyes softened and he said, “You have to get changed. If you sit in those wet clothes all day you’ll catch a cold.”

 

“I have now gone through my shirt and my backup cardigan for the day, in just the first two hours,” she said. “I don’t have anything else.”

 

“Take my sweater,” Lucien said. Lucien’s signature style at work was a button down shirt with a monochromatic sweater over top.

 

“No, I’ll be fine,” Feyre said, always one to refuse charity. But already the air conditioning in the office had goosebumps rising on her arms and neck and set her teeth chattering.

 

“Don’t be silly,” Lucien said, his sweater already halfway off his head. He passed the forest-green fabric over to her. “Go get changed, freshen up. I’ll handle _the beast_.” His words dropped to a whisper at the end.

 

Feyre smiled and accepted the sweater, heading off to the bathroom. She peeled off her wet cardigan and shirt and even her bra, which was soaked in some places as well. She fanned her bra under the hand dryer as she stood nude in the small bathroom, drying it out just enough that it wouldn’t get Lucien’s sweater wet. Once she slipped her (still quite damp) bra over her shivering frame, she pulled on the sweater as well.

 

The  sweater was as soft as it was big. She had to double roll the sleeves to free her hands and tucked the front into the waistband of her black skinny pants so she didn’t look like an ogre.

 

With the sweater on, she tackled her running makeup. She hadn’t worn much in the first place but what was on there was a complete mess at this point. She managed to salvage her mascara and remove what of it had run into her under-eyes, then swiped on a new layer of her tinted lip balm.

 

Her hair she gave up on. There was no saving the wet mess that once was her beautiful curls. She just fanned it out with her hands and resigned herself to the fact that it would dry into semi-ratty waves. Her biggest concern now that her curls had fallen was trying to find a way to conceal the stubborn hickey which still remained from her date. Luckily, if she placed one lock of wet hair just right on her neck, the whole thing was completely concealed. The challenge would just be keeping it that way.

 

A surprise awaited her when she returned to her desk. Sitting at her desktop was a large, beautiful arrangement of pale yellow carnations, broken up with sprigs of baby’s breath. Her own breath caught in her throat at the sight.

 

“Those came while you were in the bathroom,” Lucien said. “I signed for you—I hope that’s okay.”

 

“Thanks,” she breathed, still admiring the flower arrangement.

 

“So who’s this ‘Rhys’ guy?” Lucien was ever the fox.

 

“He’s… nobody,” Feyre said, though her heart thought anything but. “We went on a date this weekend, but…”

 

She flipped open the small notecard and it said simply:

 

> Your favorite.
> 
> Almost as beautiful as you.
> 
> Rhys.

 

He’d remembered her favorite flower. He’d remembered. She couldn’t stop the grin that overtook her face as she clutched her hands to her heart.

 

“Nobody, huh?” Lucien repeated. He came around to see her face, then gasped. “Is that a _hickey?_ ”

 

Her hand flew up to cover the offending mark on her neck as her cheeks flushed further. “No,” she mumbled, but her sheepish demeanor betrayed the truth.

 

“Feyre has flowers and a hickey from a nobody, hm?” Lucien asked in a sing-song voice.

 

“Be quiet,” Feyre shushed him, not want his incessant nosiness to ruin her moment. _Almost as beautiful as you_ , he’d said.

 

She positioned her flowers at the head of her desk, tucking the note into the pocket of her pants. Diane emerged from her office once again. Feyre was expecting a rude remark about her ill-fitting top or her messy hair but Diane’s bespectacled eyes zeroed in on the flower arrangement almost immediately.

 

“What are those,” Diane said. Grammatically, it should have been a question. But with Diane’s snake-like glare and flat tone, it was much more like a demand.

 

“Flowers,” Lucien replied.

 

“Well I know that much, dear,” Diane said. “I’m not daft. From whom?”

 

Feyre deliberated a moment before answering. Rhysand was a client; she didn’t want this to get hairy. She should probably tell Diane just for transparency’s sake. But then again, this was all so new with the two of them, and it was going so well so far, aside from one notable hiccup. Feyre didn’t want Diane’s mean-spiritedness (and apparent need to ruin all things joyful) anywhere near her budding relationship with Rhys.

 

“Just this guy I started seeing recently,” Feyre said. “All very new.”

 

Feyre could practically feel both Diane and Lucien digesting the new, juicy information. Diane made a contemplative, but ultimately disapproving hum and said, “Well tell the new guy to tone down the gifts. This is a publishing house, not a whore house.”

 

It was in moments like this that Feyre had to remind herself that Diane Leaver was a pitiful, lonely old woman. Feyre had to remind herself that Diane was unkind and abrasive because it was how she had to be to be taken seriously as a woman in the workforce back in the stone age when she’d gotten her first job. Diane was mean, but she didn’t have anyone else. And Feyre knew both those things before taking this job, so she couldn’t complain.

 

So she nodded quickly and replied, “Got it. I’ll let him know. Anything else?”

 

“Your coverages are good. I need the third one by end of day tomorrow,” Diane said  to Feyre. She turned to Lucien and instructed him, “You set up my last two appointments for this month—get the new guy in today.”

 

When at last she disappeared back into her office, Lucien sat back down at his own desk and began bombarding Feyre for info.

 

“You’re _seeing_ someone?” The intense shock and disbelief in his voice would have been insulting coming from anyone else. “This is the first guy since…”

 

“Since I was cheated on, yes,” she finished for him, purposefully avoiding his name. “But it’s very new, so no getting involved; you hear me?”

 

“So this Rhys guy. How’d you meet him?” Lucien asked, completely disregarding her order. Feyre made the childlike motion of zipping her mouth closed. “Oh come on,” he whined. “You’re wearing my sweater; you owe me.”

 

She remained impassive until he held up his hands in a plea and did that puppy-like stare he did so well.

 

“Fine,” she groaned, not historically one to withstand Lucien’s puppy eyes. “But you can’t tell anyone. Promise?”

 

His face perked back up into a triumphant smirk instantly. “Promise,” he said. He mimicked the zipper motion on his own mouth to emphasize. She glanced at the clock and then at her stack of pages to read, deciding she had some time to kill. So she told him the whole, unabridged story, omitting only the events that occurred after he walked her home post-Macbeth. Those memories were hers alone. She told him instead that they agreed to move slowly, which they technically did.

 

She finished with the new caveat: don’t tell Diane.

 

“I just don’t want her anywhere near this yet, you understand? It feels too important,” Feyre said.

 

“Got it,” Lucien replied. “But if I have the story straight, there’s something you should definitely know—”

 

“Lucien,” Diane’s shrill voice interrupted from her doorway, “I need to go over some things with you before my client arrives.”

 

Feyre looked at him imploringly, willing him with her gaze to tell her whatever magic secret detail he’d been about to divulge. But with Diane standing right there, Lucien simply gave Feyre a tight, slightly hectic smile, then followed Diane into her office.

 

What could it have been about? After a brief moment’s deliberation, she concluded it must be about Tamlin. Maybe he was dating someone new too. Or maybe, worse, he wanted to get back together with her (again). She shuddered then decided to put it out of her mind, because thinking of Tamlin never failed to put her in a horrible mood and she was not interested in having an even worse day than she had been already.

 

Aside from the flowers, she remembered. The flowers definitely were not part of her bad day.

 

Banishing thoughts of Tamlin and Diane and Lucien and Rhys from her mind, Feyre got to work on her last coverage. This one was another romance, set in Harlem in the ‘80s. The protagonists were two drag queens, one black and one Latino, from rival Houses. It was like a fiery, queer Romeo & Juliet, exploring all kinds of social division from race to gender to class. This novel was by far her favorite of the three she’d read this weekend.

 

 

> _“Ronan, we can’t keep meeting like this,” he said, the passion in his tone betraying his true feelings. “What if the Mothers found out?”_
> 
> _“I know, Julio. I just can’t stay away from you,” Ronan replied, leaning into stroke one finger down the side of his lover’s bronzed face._

 

It was almost too easy to get absolutely enraptured by this novel. Feyre had a hard time remembering she was reading to edit and not just reading for pleasure. Pleasure came a little too easy with this narrative.

 

 

> _Julio’s frame shuddered as he carefully, so carefully, slipped the last bit of offending fabric from Ronan’s body. Ronan’s makeup was smeared, false eyelashes tossed onto the crate Julio used for a nightstand. He cast away all thoughts of danger, of repercussions, and focused solely on the heat of Julio’s skin against his own—and on the fire it ignited within him._
> 
> _“Teach me—teach me how to forget to think,” Ronan breathed against the skin of Julio’s jaw._
> 
> _“When I’m done with you, you won’t even remember your own name,” Julio whispered. Ronan shivered as he slid his body closer to Julio’s as he sealed their love in a forbidden kiss._
> 
> _“I see you got my flowers,” came a third voice, disrupting the moment._ Wait. What?

 

Feyre’s head snapped up in surprise to see none other than Rhysand standing there, in her office, in front of her desk. His face was as devastatingly handsome as usual, perhaps made even more so by his utterly mundane surroundings. How could any person look so beautiful under fluorescent lighting? It simply wasn’t fair.

 

“H-Hi!” Feyre said, unable to conceal her shock. Her cheeks were flushed from the passage he’d interrupted, and from seeing him here. “What are you doing here?”

 

“I’m here to see Diane,” he said. Her heart fell infinitesimally, even though she knew the reaction was silly. Of course he was here to see Diane; she was the editor of his book. But he turned it around, lifting her spirits when he said with a wink, “At least, that’s what everyone else thinks.”

 

Feyre smiled widely, feeling in that moment exceptionally special.

 

She shuffled her papers on her desk as she stood, peering through the window wall into Diane’s office. Diane had noticed Rhys standing there and was on her way out to greet him. Feyre looked up at Rhys, suddenly understanding Lucien’s untold piece of knowledge—he knew Rhys was coming in and wanted to warn her. How sweet of him, actually.

 

“She’s coming out to grab you now,” Feyre told Rhys. “Just do me a solid, don’t mention this yet.” She motioned her hands between the two of them for clarity. “She’s my boss and you’re her client and this is all so new and exciting and I—”

 

“Got it,” Rhys said, just as Diane opened her door, Lucien right behind her.

 

“Mr. Starling!” Diane called in her client-voie. She paused for a beat, no doubt analyzing the scene in front of her: Feyre’s flushed cheeks, Rhys’s hand caressing the petals of one of the many carnations on Feyre’s desk, their conspiratorial stances, heads only inches apart as they each leaned across the small desk. Feyre realized how they must look and instantly straightened, smoothing her hands down Lucien’s green sweater.

 

“How nice to see you,” Diane said finally, waving her hand to beckon him into her office.

 

“The pleasure is all mine,” Rhys said as he strolled into her office, Lucien slipping out and closing the door after him.

 

“I’m sorry, I tried to tell you!” Lucien hissed as he sat down at his own desk. Feyre spun her chair around to face him.

 

“Don’t worry about it—it was actually a really nice surprise,” she said. “Ijust kind of wish I hadn’t gone trudging through the rain this morning, but oh well.”

 

“So,” Lucien said suggestively, “what was that all about?”

 

“Oh, it was nothing,” Feyre said dismissively, though her cheeks were still warm.

 

“Nothing?” That was a sexually charged encounter if I’ve ever seen one,” Lucien replied, making Feyre’s eyes roll.

 

“He was just saying something sweet, and I told him not to say anything about us to Diane. That was all.”

 

Lucien hummed in response as if he really didn’t believe her, then glanced at the clock. “It’s first lunch,” he said. “Do you want to take it or should I?”

 

“You go ahead. I have to finish this novel,” she said. _And I don’t want to miss Rhys leaving,_ she didn’t add, though it was very much the truth.

 

“‘Kay, thanks,” Lucien said. “Did you bring your own lunch today? If not I can grab you a sandwich or something while I’m out.”

 

The offer was kind, but Feyre declined. “I kinda feel like going out today, but thanks,” she said.

 

Lucien nodded and pulled on his jacket. With one last smile, he headed out the door.

 

Feyre put her head down and tried, honestly tried, to keep reading. But Rhys was right in the other room and if she craned her neck just slightly, she could see his regal shoulders, the tufts of wavy black hair that rested atop his head, his perfectly muscular form, just sitting there, his back to her. Perfect for staring. Perfect for distracting.

 

Before she knew it, an hour had passed and she’d only made it 26 pages. Lucien came back in and shucked off his jacket. Feyre sighed and began gathering her things. It seems she was going to miss Rhysand leaving after all. She stood from her desk and closed her book.

 

The door to Diane’s office opened just then. “Thank you again for coming in, Mr. Starling,” Diane said, shaking his hand. “Feyre, what are you working on?” Diane asked, no doubt noticing Feyre’s now-empty desk.

 

“I’m actually just heading out for my lunch break,” Feyre said, grabbing her bag and jacket. Diane nodded, wished Rhys a good day, then headed back into her office.

 

“Lunch break?” Rhys asked as Feyre turned around to drop some notes on Lucien’s desk—just things for him to finish while she was out. Lucien waggled his eyes at her as she did so, given Rhys’s question.

 

“Yep,” Feyre saud, giving Lucien a hard glare before turning to face Rhys. “Just an hour.”

 

“Well do you have plans?” he asked, making her heart flutter. “Because, if you don’t, I’d love to grab a bite with you.”

 

She loved the way he phrased it, loved the purposeful wiggle room he left her to say no, if she wanted to. But she didn’t, obviously. Who in their right mind would say no to lunch with Rhysand Starling? She smiled and nodded, wanting nothing more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> leave a kudos and a comment!


	6. Lunch & a Voicemail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> feyre and rhys do lunch, an awkward voicemail is left, and an old friendship is rekindled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello lovelies ! i'm sorry it has been *so* long. but here i am, and here is the chapter !! hope you enjoy :)

Rhys had debated texting Feyre to warn her that he’d be coming in to see Diane but ultimately decided against it; that was a little self-aggrandizing, he thought, to think his presence was so impactful to her that she needed an advanced warning.

 

Ultimately, it was worth it, if only to see the surprise on her face when she looked up from her book. He saw she’d received his flowers—his apology for the other night. She seemed flustered seeing him here and it was incredibly adorable to watch.

 

He wasn’t surprised to hear Feyre ask him not to say anything to Diane. He hadn’t been planning on saying anything anyway. He knew if the roles were reversed, he might want to keep the whole thing private for a little while too.

 

When Diane pulled him into her office, Rhys tried, honestly tried, to pay attention to her notes. But it was like every moment he was stuck in there, his consciousness was stuck in the other room, hyper-aware that Feyre sat right there. It was an agonizing hour, but very worth it he realized, when he started to leave. Feyre’s red-haired coworker walked in, evidently making it Feyre’s turn to take her lunch.

 

He felt vulnerable when he asked her out to lunch. He was unsure of what she would say, especially in front of her coworker. When she said yes he was ecstatic and had a hard time concealing it, given the wide grin that overtook his face at her answer.

 

He didn’t miss the covert glances Feyre’s red-haired co-worker threw her, leaving Rhys wondering how much this other man knew. It made him wonder if this man was to Feyre like Mor was to him: a confidante, an ear to listen.

 

If he was, Rhys no doubt wanted to get to know him. He wanted to know everything about Feyre, her friends included. Rhys waved casually to the other man as he left, earning himself a wary smile in return.

 

“Anywhere you have in mind?” Rhys asked as they stepped out into the drizzling rain. It had let up significantly since this morning.

 

“There’s a great Mexican joint around the street. Surprisingly delicious street tacos, for this far North,” she said.

 

“Then away we go,” Rhys said.

 

Feyre raised her hand up like a visor to protect her eyes from the rain.

 

“Sorry about my outfit,” Feyre said, gesturing to her oversized green sweater. Rhysand honestly hadn’t considered it unusual, but then again, he didn’t know Feyre well enough yet to know what was the usual.

 

“You look fine to me,” Rhys said.

 

“Oh, well thanks. I mean, I’m wearing Lucien’s sweater—my coworker back there.”

 

“What?” he asked with a laugh. “Why?”

 

“My devil boss sent me out to buy her a new coffee after she spilled her first one all over me. Then my second shirt got soaked in the rain, and I was basically shirtless.”

 

“Well that was nice of him to offer up his sweater, then,” Rhys said. “You must be pretty good friends. Have you known each other long?”

 

Feyre signalled for the two of them to turn right onto a slightly busier street.

 

“We’ve been working together for two years. We were best friends for a while,” she said, not elaborating. Rhys didn’t get the chance to ask what happened to warrant the past tense, because they had arrived.

 

The building was brightly colored with warring magentas and turquoises and oranges. Rhys had the vague sense that he’d been here before but couldn’t quite place when.

 

They stepped into the restaurant and joined the small line leading to the counter to order. Feyre reached into a small box on the wall and grabbed them a laminated menu to share. Rhys leaned his head in to read along with her. It was almost exciting, to be huddled together like this.

 

They stepped up to the counter and each ordered a couple tacos and a bottle of Coke. Feyre reached for her bag when the cashier announced their total.

 

“I got it,” Rhys said, reaching for his own wallet as well.

 

“No,” Feyre insisted. “Please, let me. You got dinner and _Macbeth_ , remember?”

 

Rhys smiled and dropped his hand, letting her pay like she wanted. The cashier handed them a number and a basket of freshly-fried tortilla chips after Feyre paid. She grabbed the number and the basket, and he grabbed their two bottles of Coke, following behind her as she picked out a table for the two of them.

 

She navigated the two of them down a hallway he wouldn’t have noticed on his own, which opened up to an outdoor covered patio. The pinks and turquoises continued out here, their vibrancy (and the space heaters) keeping the space warm despite the Autumn air.

 

Feyre stopped and served them some salsa from a mini fridge propped on one of the tables, then grabbed them both seats.

 

The table was teeny—barely large enough for the chips and salsa. When they sat, their knees were crushed together under the table. But Rhys didn’t mind. He liked being near her.

 

Something about the slight stickiness of the table and the sight of the chipping paint finally clicked something in Rhys’s brain.

 

“What is it?” Feyre asked.

 

“Oh, I just realized I’ve been here before. I thought so, but I couldn’t quite place it earlier. But I remember now: one time my friends got me horribly drunk and we came here for drunk-tamales and nightcap margaritas,” Rhys said, remembering the memory fondly.

 

Cassian had complained he was _starving_ , making Azriel laugh. Azriel had promised he knew just the place, slurring his way through every vowel. Rhys had eaten enough tamales to feed a person three times his size, and Azriel had eventually stood and sung a song, despite the lack of a karaoke machine or instruments. Az was always the attention-whore when he was drunk.

 

He smiled at the memory and popped a chip into his mouth. “Wait, this is _so good_ ,” he said. He didn’t know something as simple as chips and salsa could actually be this good.

 

“I know my way around a good cheap restaurant,” Feyre said confidently.

 

Rhys smiled. “How was work?” he asked. She recounted the morning she’d had—one he didn’t envy. She mentioned how happy the flowers had made her, which made him happy.

 

“Despite all of that drama with the coffee though, I think the biggest mistake I made this morning was telling Lucien about us,” she laughed. “He’ll have at least a trillion questions when I get back.”

 

Her mentioning Lucien sparked Rhys’s memory, and how she’d cryptically spoken of him before they’d walked into the restaurant.

 

“You mentioned before,” he asked slowly, unsure if he was overstepping his bounds, “that you _were_ best friends. Past tense. What happened?”

 

“It’s uh,” she scrunched up her lips as she thought, “complicated.”

 

Their food was dropped at that moment, interrupting whatever Feyre may have said next.

 

Rhys let it drop, not wanting to pressure Feyre into saying anything. Whatever had happened obviously still made her uncomfortable. He just nodded and dipped down to grab one of his tacos.

 

Dear god, it was so good. He thought he might cry. His drunk self had not appreciated the tamales enough apparently, if they were anywhere near as good as these tacos. The pork was so succulent and tasted like citrus and garlic, and the cilantro and onion topping added just the right amount of sharpness. He actually moaned a little, out loud.

 

Feyre smirked. “Good, huh?” she teased. She took a bit out of one of her own and fell prey to the same reaction—it was involuntary. The next few minutes were silent, each of them too absorbed in the flavors of their food to focus any energy on conversation.

 

The lull ended when Feyre said almost suddenly, “He set me up with his best friend, and then his best friend cheated on me.” Rhys choked on the bite of his food, caught off guard by the statement. “That’s why Lucien and I aren’t best friends anymore.”

 

“I’m so sorry,” Rhys said. “I’ve never been cheated on myself, but I can only imagine.”

 

“Well of course no one’s cheated on you,” she said, attempting to make light, “you’re perfect.”

 

He cocked his head and furrowed his brow. Is that what she really thought? “Cheaters don’t cheat because their partners aren’t good enough,” he said. “They cheat because they’re assholes.”

 

“I know,” she said, though it sounded more like an offhand dismissal than a true recognition of his words. She’d probably heard that same thing countless times; he didn’t blame her for not wanting to hear it again. Although, it seemed as if maybe she had ever truly heard the words, or at least never internalized them. “Anyway,” she said, waving her hand, “I dated the guy, he cheated on me, and Lucien knew. He knew and didn’t say anything. For a while. It ruined our friendship. We’re starting to return to something, but definitely nowhere near where we were. I don’t know if we’ll ever get back there. But we don’t have to talk about that anymore.”

 

“Got it,” he said, noting her discomfort with the subject. “What were you reading this morning? You looked pretty enraptured there.”

 

He saw her eyes actually light up as she remembered the book. “Oh, it was the coolest story. I don’t know if I’m really allowed to share, especially with another author but…” she said.

 

“When have we ever followed the rules?” he asked, teasing.

 

She smiled and acquiesced, telling him about the novel she’d been reading. He admitted, it did sound amazing. She talked with her hands, he noticed. Not in an overly dramatic way, but she definitely couldn’t stay still either. Her hands moved in fluid motions, tossing and turning as she described the nuances of the novel. She pulled one hand up to ruffle a lock of hair and as he watched, he noticed a purplish mark on her neck.

 

Was that…? Oh my god.

 

Feyre seemed to sense his shifting focus and followed his eyes. When she realized what he was looking at, she clamped a hand over the small bruise on her neck and  went bright red.

 

She laughed nervously, self-deprecatingly.

 

“Is that…” he began.

 

“Yes,” she interrupted. “This is so embarassing.”

 

On the contrary, he found a sort of elicit thrill in seeing evidence of him on her body, here in this public place. He’d never felt this way before, but he felt almost significant for being so clearly a part of her life.

 

He smiled coyly. “I don’t know,” he said. “I kind of like it.”

 

Her cheeks turned red, which bolstered the strange feeling within him. “I don’t even remember when that could have happened,” he said, trying to sort through all the tangle of mouths and limbs in his memory.

 

“Oh, I remember,” Feyre said, her voice slightly low. She circled the hickey with her fingertips, just barely grazing the skin. Rhys was completely lost in her hooded eyes; he couldn’t look away as she bit her lip, still swirling her finger on her neck, remembering.

 

She opened her mouth as if to say something more, something likely so enticing Rhys could hardly breathe, but was interrupted when someone clapped a hand down on Rhys’s shoulder.

 

Rhys looked up and saw Azriel, his signature small smile on his delicate face. Rhys hadn’t even seen him walk in.

 

“Hey, man!” Rhys said, standing to give his friend a hug. The intensity of the moment between him and Feyre sizzled away as quickly as it had arrived.

 

“Hey,” Azriel replied coolly. “Long time, no see, buddy. How are you?”

 

“I’m great,” Rhys said. He turned toward Feyre and extended a hand, saying, “This is Feyre. We met in Paris. Sort of.”

 

Azriel reached out and shook Feyre’s hand, always professional. “I’m Azriel. An old friend of Rhysand’s.”

 

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” Feyre said, smiling.

 

“I wish I could say the same of you,” Azriel said, shooting Rhys a pointed look and making Feyre laugh.

 

“Well,” Azriel said, “I’ll let you get back to your meal; I just wanted to say hello.”

 

“Oh no,” Feyre said, grabbing her bag off the bench next to her and swinging it over her shoulder. “I have to get back to work anyway. It was nice meeting you, Azriel.”

 

“Well, I’ll walk you back,”Rhys offered, standing.

 

“That’s alright,” she said, rubbing that same spot on her neck again, tough still hidden under her hair, and biting her lip. “I could use the walk, I think.”

 

He nodded, understanding the meaning. He could do with some fresh air to clear his head too.

 

“Thank you for lunch, Feyre,” he said with a smile.

 

“The pleasure was all mine,” she replied with a smile. “Call me later?”

 

“I’d love to,” he said, and she smiled once more before walking off.

 

Azriel sat down on the bench, occupying Feyre’s now-vacant seat. “Bro,” he said. “Was that a girl? Tell me everything.”

* * *

 

Feyre wrapped her arms tightly around her middle as she half-ran back to work. She was left entirely breathless from their encounter, with butterflies fluttering so hard in her tummy she thought she might explode.

 

When she reached the steps in front of her building she stopped, doubled over, hands on her knees. She had to get herself under control before she went back in there. Her mind was reeling. Her heart was racing.

 

She ran her hands through her unruly hair and paused for the span of two breaths.

 

One.

 

Two.

 

When she finally could, she put her poker face back up, unwilling to show her vulnerability to Lucien. How could Rhysand make her feel this way? How could one person ever have such an effect on another?

 

She strolled coolly into the office, sure she looked entirely unbothered.

 

Okay, maybe not entirely.

 

Okay, maybe not at all.

 

“You’re all clammy and weird,” Lucien said immediately. “What happened? Tell me every detail. And don’t leave anything out! You always leave the juicy stuff out.”

 

“Feyre set down her bag by her desk, struggling to come up with something to say to deter him, so as not to have to tell the whole story. Luckily for her, Diane called Lucien into her office just then, and Feyre was saved.

 

Lucien narrowed his eyes as Feyre sighed and he said, “This isn’t over.”

 

Unbeknownst to him at the time, it was indeed over. For, as soon as he left Diane’s office, she called Feyre in. And by the time Feyre and Diane had finished going over all her notes, the day was done.

 

Lucien had stayed for a few minutes longer than usual, likely trying to catch Feyre on her way out, but her meeting with Diane ran long enough that he gave up and left.

 

She was safe from his questioning. For now.

 

* * *

 

“You can totally do this. You are a strong, smart, suave man. All you have to do is pick up the phone and dial. And then talk,” Rhys recited to himself in front of the mirror.

 

Feyre asked him to call, and so he would call. Easy peasy.

 

He practiced his introduction in his head… _Hey Feyre, this is Rhys._

 

It was a smooth intro. He could handle it. He could do this. _Hey Feyre, this is Rhys._

 

He went into the contacts of his phone and clicked her name. The phone rang, then rang, then rang, then rang, then clicked.

 

“This is Feyre Archeron. I obviously didn’t pick up, so leave a message! Unless it’s Lucien and in that case, stop calling me,” her pre-recorded message said.

 

Voicemail? He hadn’t anticipated leaving a voicemail. That’s fine. That would be okay. He could manage. _Remember your intro,_ he told himself. _Hey Feyre, this is Rhys._

 

“Hey, this is Feyre,” he said, spectacularly butchering the only line he’d prepared. “I mean! This is Rhys. Hi Feyre. Rhys here. This is Rhys.”

 

He smacked a hand against his forehead, cursing his own stupidity. He could save this though, he could fix it. He was determined to fix this already disastrous voicemail.

 

“Sorry about that. Uh, just calling to say hey. I had a lot of fun at lunch today. I have a lot of fun whenever I’m with you,” he said, the words just kind of coming out of him, without much thought. “I’d love to continue having fun with you, if you’re up for it.”

 

Stupid, stupid line. What was this, an ‘80s rom-com? He was getting frustrated with his own lack of eloquence; he was supposed to be a writer, for god’s sakes. Frustrated became flustered as he continued, not knowing what to say or how.

 

“I just want to continue having fun with ou like, forever. I love spending time with you. And I really feel like I could see a future with you. Like you would get along so well with my friends, and they’d just love you so much and I don’t know. Could you imagine ya just being domestic? Making coffee together? Watching TV on the couch? I’d sit and scribble bad chapters in my journal and you’d grab your red pen and we’d be a dynamic authoring duo. We could get a cat! Like you know how couples get pets together? That could be us, and we could name it something dumb like Aristotle and we’d just be so happy.”

 

Rhys’s words had just snowballed, until he wasn’t even sure what he was saying anymore. Looking back at the wreckage he realized he had to delete this message. It could never see the light of day. This was like level 11 on the creeper scale.

 

“Good god, what a train wreck. Idiot, idiot, idiot. How do I delete?” he wondered aloud, pulling the phone from his ear to examine the buttons, hoping one would magically tell him how to delete his horrid, embarrassing message.

 

The phone saved him the trouble, as it said, “Your message has reached its limit, and has been sent.”

 

Then to his absolute horror, the call ended and returned to his home screen.

 

“No,” he whispered. “No, no, no. This can’t be happening.”

 

Only it had happened, and now he had to deal with it.

 

* * *

 

 

> RS: Hey
> 
>  
> 
> FA: Hi :)
> 
>  
> 
> RS: So… I left you a message.
> 
>  
> 
> FA: Must have missed it. What’s up?
> 
>  
> 
> RS: Nothing important. At all.  
>  RS: Just  
>  RS: Don’t even listen to the message.  
>  RS: Like, just delete it immediately.  
>  RS: Nothing important on there.  
>  RS: Not at all.  
>  RS: A simple delete will be fine.
> 
>  
> 
> FA: …  
>  FA: You know, if you hadn’t made a big deal I honestly probably wouldn’t have listened.  
>  FA: But now my curiosity is piqued…
> 
>  
> 
> RS: No!!  
>  RS: Just delete! Delete it!
> 
>  
> 
> FA: Now I have to listen.
> 
>  
> 
> RS: Feyre, don’t!  
>  RS: It’s really not important.
> 
> RS: it’s been 3 minutes since your last text. Please reply.
> 
> RS: Oh no you must be listening.
> 
> RS: I just got flustered! You make me nervous!  
>  RS: Once I started talking I just got so flustered I couldn’t stop  
>  RS: I promise you  I DO NOT think about our future like that  
>  RS: Not that often.  
>  RS: I just got carried away. I’m not this creepy.  
>  RS: Oh my god. This is so embarrassing  
>  RS: Just delete my number goodbye
> 
> RS: I take that back please reply to me  
>  RS: I am in agony
> 
>  
> 
> FA: It really was not that bad  
>  FA: You have got to calm down  
>  FA: A little long maybe. A little wordy. A little (maybe a lot?) forward. Not that bad though.  
>  FA: I had fun too  
>  FA: And I really like you too  
>  FA: I don’t know if I’m at the stage where I’m really imagining our life together yet, but  
>  FA: I like a guy with a little enthusiasm
> 
>  
> 
> RS: Honestly just come to my house and kill me right now.
> 
>  
> 
> FA: I don’t know about that.  
>  FA: But do you maybe want to go to the Art museum on Saturday?
> 
>  
> 
> RS: Yes  
>  RS: Yes yes yes.  
>  RS: 3:00? I can pick you up.
> 
>  
> 
> FA: Sounds perfect.
> 
>  
> 
> RS: Great.  
>  RS: And can we maybe never speak about that voicemail ever ever again? Like ever?
> 
>  
> 
> FA: What voicemail? ;)
> 
>  
> 
> RS: Thank you  
>  RS: So I’ll see you at 3:00 on Saturday.
> 
>  
> 
> FA: No more surprise drop-ins with Diane this week?
> 
>  
> 
> RS: Nope. Fortunately.  
>  RS: She’s scary.
> 
>  
> 
> FA: Very.
> 
>  
> 
> RS: Ok so Saturday.
> 
>  
> 
> FA: Can’t wait.
> 
>  
> 
> RS: Me neither.  
>  RS: See you then.
> 
>  
> 
> FA:  Quick question though. When you said we’d have a cat…  
>  FA: You meant a dog, right?

 

 

> RS: Feyre
> 
>  
> 
> FA: Sorry! Not speaking about it.

 

* * *

 

Her avoidance of Lucien lasted another hour, and then her phone rang. She sent the first call to voicemail. But by the third call, she decided talking was easier than listening to her phone ring all night.

 

“Tell me everything,”  he said as soon as she picked up.

 

“Yes, hello to you too, Lucien. I am having a nice night, thank you for asking,” she said sarcastically.

 

“Don’t leave anything out,” he said.

 

“There’s not really anything to leave out,” she said (lied). “We got tacos. We talked. We laughed. His friend showed up and I left. That’s all.”

 

“Girl. You and I both know that’s not all.”

 

“Except it is,” she said.

 

“Feyre, come on. Can we just talk about this stuff like we used to? I’m still so sorry for what happened, and for my part in all of it. I was a shitty friend to you. But I know you don’t have anyone else to gossip with—” he said.

 

“Actually, I already told Nesta all about it!” she interrupted, her pride a little bruised by his assumption, though her rebuttal was in fact, a total lie.

 

“Oh please,” Lucien said. “You could have at least said the other sister. The nice one. Ellie or something? I haven’t even met them and I know you’d never talk boys with your sisters, especially Nesta.”

 

“Fine,” Feyre admitted.

 

“Please?” Lucien begged. “Can we just dish, like before? I miss you. I miss you so damn much.”

 

Feyre hedged for a minute, chewing on her lip. She missed him too. God, she missed her friendship with Lucien.

 

“If I say yes, do you promise not to be overly critical of him?” she asked.

 

“No,” he said, knowing as well as she did that his answer wouldn’t actually affect her decision. He’d already won, as soon as she had even considered it.

 

“I knew you wouldn’t. Worth a shot though,” she said with a smile, though he couldn’t see it. “Okay so you will not _believe_ the amount of tension there was when he noticed my hickey. It was like all the air had left the atmosphere…”

 

Many minutes later, after much discussion about all the possible hidden meanings in all of Rhys’s words, she got to the voicemail.

 

“Oh my god,” Lucien said. Feyre could imagine him holding a hand up to his tan face, covering his mouth in shock. “That’s the creepiest thing ever.”

 

“It was actually cute,” she said. “And it humanized him a little. He was so flustered! I could hear it in his voice. He started off saying he liked spending time with me, and he wanted to see me more. And then he just kept rambling and suddenly he was talking about seeing a bright future with me? Like how I’d get along so well with his friends, and he could imagine us at the shelter adopting a cat, and he’d write and I’d edit and we’d be a dynamic duo and all this stuff.”

 

“He meant dog though, right?” Lucien asked.

 

“That’s what I said!” she replied. “At the end of the message he started mocking himself aloud and said something like he was going to delete it and try over, but I guess he pressed the wrong button.”

 

“Okay I’ll tell you right now if any guy or girl did that to me, I’d ghost them so hard,” Lucien said.

 

“No, I know,” Feyre said. “Normally I would too. But Lucien,” she stopped and sighed, staring up at the ceiling as she thought of him, “there’s just something about him. I can’t explain it but I’m just drawn to him. Always.”

 

“That’s some sappy shit,” he said. “But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want something like that too.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Feyre sputtered. “What did you just say? Notorious player Lucien Vanserra wants something real? More than a fling?”

 

She heard him sigh. “I don’t know exactly when I realized it, but I’m just tired of… being alone.”

 

Gone was the cocky, silver-tongued Lucien of moments ago. Feyre recognized the tone in his voice from the moments they used to lie awake into the wee hours of the morning, reading manuscripts and eating coffee ice cream and talking about the real things. He helped her work through her resentment of her mother and her sisters; she helped him come to terms with his lingering vulnerability issues. After the death of his high school sweetheart, he’d never been quite the same, he used to say. He was hardened, bitter, and he hadn’t had a steady partner since.

 

Lucien had seen his fair share of women and men—one night stands and tinder hook-ups and casual sex galore. But it had been almost a decade since he’d really been romantically involved with anyone.

 

In fact, Feyre realized she was probably the only person he’d been comfortable sharing intimate moments with, like their late night talks. It was the first time since the fiasco with Tamlin that she realized Lucien had lost something serious there too.

 

“Oh, Luc,” she said, pulling out the nickname she hadn’t used in at least a year. “That’s great. I mean. Not the feeling alone part. But, I’m so glad you’re feeling ready to get back out there.”

 

“Yeah, I don’t know. I’m coming up on 9 years since the crash and I just, I think it’s really time.”

 

“I’m so happy for you,” she said. “Let me know if you want a wing-man. Or if you want me to set you up with some people. I’m always here.”

 

“Feyre, you don’t have any friends. Who could you possibly set me up with?” he joked.

 

“Rude but true,” she said.

 

“Well anyway,” he said. “I’ve really fucking missed you.”

 

“I’ve missed you too,” she said. “I’m sorry I left you alone for so long.”

 

“I understand,” he said. “What I did is unforgivable. I chose Tamlin over you. And I regret it every day.”

 

Feeling bold, she asked him, “How is Tamlin by the way?”

 

“He’s good, I guess. I don’t see him much anymore, maybe once a month?”

 

“Did he and Ianthe stay together after all the…?” she asked, curiosity getting the better of her. She wasn’t sure if it would hurt more or less if they’d stayed together.

 

“They dated for a while,” Lucien said. “But not long. Maybe three months or so. He has some new girlfriend now. I haven’t met her, but he seems really into her.”

 

“Hmm,” she hummed, not quite sure how she felt about that.

 

“But you’re happy,” he asked, “with this new guy, Rhys?”

 

“So happy,” she said, her chest warming just thinking about him. “It’s still really early. But this feels like… like something big.”

 

She paused and sighed. “I just can’t wait for everything else to come.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> leave a comment with your favorite part of acofas (or least favorite!) or, if you haven;t read acofas, your favorite breakfast food!  
> spoilers (but not really): i loved when feyre and cassian decorated the house, but i hated the wall scene... lmao. and my favorite breakfast food is baguette with butter and jam. i love you all. thanks for sticking around.

**Author's Note:**

> let me know what you think with a kudos or a comment or send me an ask or a message on tumblr @feyrearch


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